The Binding That Saves
by WoMo
Summary: A snap decision sends two enemies across Kalimdor; tied by mixed loyalties, pursued by a vengeful Forsaken, and lost in a world of bitter rivalry. It is fortune when two separate paths cross once - but what is it when they cross twice?
1. The Smugglers

_I should have never come out here._

The thought rolled over and over again in Azshana's mind as she stared over the vast expanse of jungle brush and vines that laid before her. She was kneeling on a large slab of rock, slick with moss, that jutted out from the earth, trying to determine where she was, or where she might be going.

Of course, standing on top of a rock in the middle of the jungle where anyone - friendly or unfriendly - could see her was not the wisest of ideas, but she did not see any alternatives. Azshana had been _lost_ in this place for several hours, and darkness was approaching. She would need to return to soon - or she would be forced to spend the night out here.

The trees and the mist obscured much of her view, and she frowned as she slowly turned fully around, seeing only more of the same shapeless brush and greenery that was so common in Feralas. She had no idea where she was.

_I should have never come out here._

Azshana quietly slipped off the rock and sat resting under its shadow, planning her next move. She retrieved a piece of bread from her pack - the last of her rations - and slowly began eating it, still deep in thought.

_A Night-Elf lost in the woods,_ she thought grimly. She could only imagine what her mother would have to say about _that_.

"Probably that I should have listened to her and never left Darnassus," she said aloud. Her mother always felt the need to impress her with advice - most of which, Azshana decided, was not completely sound.

Azshana finished the last of her bread, wondering what she could possibly do next. She had originally taken a shortcut through the woods to avoid meeting any horde on the main road. However, according to her estimates she should have reached civilization again a long time ago. She must have wandered to far south, or perhaps miscalculated the time needed to reach her destination, or have done one of the million possible things that could have resulted in her getting lost.

_I should have never come out here._

The sole purpose of her journey was to see horde progress in their new encampment. They had slowly been inching westward, and it had been her duty to determine why. Azshana was relatively new to this region, and while she did not completely understand why they would send her over the more experienced elves in the area, she did not question her orders.

She sighed and unrolled her map, staring at it blankly, hoping to see some clue as to where she was in the jumble of rock and tree and brush. She traced the path she was planning to take with her finger, feeling sure that she should have reached the horde encampment by now.

It had been foolish to try to navigate through a jungle that she was not even familiar with. She should not have come out this way.

_Should have stuck near the road - not on it, but within sight distance of it._

But none of that mattered now. The reality was that she would need to somehow find her way out of this mess and get to the horde encampment to finish her mission.

Azshana stiffened as she heard a distant roar of some creature, instinctively reaching for the sword by her side. The jungle was not empty, she knew, and while she was fortunate to have avoided most of its dangers, she knew that her luck could not last. After a moment of near silence, her shoulders slackened and slowly she sheathed her sword.

Azshana reached for her pack and found it to be disturbingly light - much lighter than it had been when she started. She would need food, and, soon, clean water as well. Not to mention she also had need of finding shelter for the night, as with every passing moment it became more and more clear to her that she would not be able to return to her camp before darkness fell.

With those thoughts in mind, she got to her feet and swung her pack over her shoulder. She had taken more than enough time to rest.

Suddenly Azshana froze, her long ears prickling as she strained her hearing. She had sworn that she had heard a noise in the brush, and slowly - almost casually - her hand drifted down to the hilt of her sword.

She had been reckless, she knew. Standing on that rock was - in hindsight - more risk than it was worth, and a chill ran down her spine as she wondered if she was being followed.

"Who's there," she whispered. The sword felt reassuring in her hand and once again - this time with more force - she said, "Who's there?"

There was no response, and, after a moment, she let out a long, shaky breath. Being alone in unfamiliar territory was making her paranoid, and, she admitted, more than a little afraid. She shuddered as she thought of what could happen if Orcs found her out here.

_What are you doing out here?_ She said to herself. _You don't belong here. Here, in the middle of contested territory where people died and no one cared._

A small, tiny corner of her that she could never admit to herself wished she had listened to mother.

Azshana turned and pushed herself through the entangling vines and tall growths that sprouted from the ground like so many blades of grass, sometimes drawing her sword to cut through the places where the vegetation was exceptionally thick. She was not entirely sure what she was looking for - perhaps a tree with branches large enough to support her while she slept - but she knew that moving was better than standing still.

The question she had asked herself earlier reappeared in her mind. _What are you doing here?_

There was no clear answer for her. Azshana could not recall the precise reason, but only remembered a pressing need to leave Teldrassil and its tranquil forests that some found relaxing but she found to be stifling.

He mother had not understood this. She never understood.

Azshana whirled around as she heard the brush rustling from behind her - and this time she felt no doubt. She drew her sword, her heart racing, trying very hard to keep herself calm. She had fought before, it was true, but never against the Horde and never _for her life_. And that was exactly what she suspected lurked in the underbrush - Horde. Despite herself her arms began to tremble and her sword wavered in her hand.

She steeled herself, getting a better grip on her sword, then said, "I know you're there," Azshana said with more confidence than she felt. "And I know you've been following me. Come out."

To her surprise, they did. A man crawled out from the place he was hiding - obviously the man who had made the noise - and stood to face her. She felt simultaneous relief and apprehension. While he was definitely not a member of the Horde, neither should he have been in this area of Feralas. It was not a safe area for anyone in the Alliance.

"Come on out," he said roughly in common, a small smirk on his face that Azshana was not entirely comfortable with. He was unshaven and dirty, his hair matted and damp, his face dark and smeared with mud. His ragged clothes told her that this man had been in the wilderness for a while. A dagger hung loosely on his waste.

Azshana gasped as two other men came out from the brush on either side of her, both having the same appearance as the first man. They grinned and glanced towards the first man for direction.

"The Alliance sent you?" she said, feeling fear once again creep into her bowels. She lowered her sword, but did not sheath it.

Her words elicited a hearty laugh from all three of them, and after a moment the first man, as if in response, slowly drew his dagger. It was rusted and stained with a dark liquid. "No dearie," he said, still wearing a smirk. "We don't have much to do with the Alliance." He paused for a moment, as if evaluating her. "You look lost. Maybe you should come with us."

"I'd rather not," Azshana said, her eyes switching between all three of the men around her. How could they find her in the middle of nowhere?

"It wasn't really a request, dearie," said the man. He gave her a full grin and she saw that his teeth were yellowed and broken. "Maybe you should put down that sword too. That wasn't a request, either."

Azshana did not reply, her mind racing with ways to escape this situation. They had her surrounded, and, given their appearance, they probably had a much better idea of the lay of the land than she.

The man on the right reached for her sword, grabbing her wrist with one hand as the other went for her neck. She whirled on him, her free hand going for the spare dagger she always kept in her pocket, but the other man had already grabbed her shoulders and pressed the blade of his dagger into the side of her neck. She froze, feeling the sharp tip already starting to draw blood. The man who had tried to grab her sword instead reached for her pocket, removing the knife that was hidden here.

The man with the broken teeth had not moved, and, still grinning, said "You don't want to be out here by your lonesome, dearie. Now we can make this easy, difficult, or bloody. Which would you have it?"

Azshana swallowed and closed her eyes, feeling a cold sensation sweep into her bowels. _I should never have come out here. I should never have come out here._

There was no choice. Not at this point. She slackened her grip and heard rather than saw her sword fall to the ground. She opened her eyes and watched as the man bent to pick it up, pausing once to look it over.

"That's a good girl," he said. "No one'll hurt you unless ya want us to."

"What do you want with me?" Azshana asked in a whisper.

He looked at her, not answering immediately. He motioned for her and the two other men to follow him. Together they went through the jungle in the same direction that Azshana had originally came. "Nothin'," he said finally. "This is just business. Don't take it personal, dearie."

The dagger was removed from her neck and she was once again able to walk on her own - though the two men did not leave her side. She felt naked and ashamed - how had these three _humans_ caught her unawares?

"What do you mean by business?" Azshana asked at last.

"Simple," said the man. "I take you to Desolace, I give you to my partners for some gold. After that doesn't really matter." He laughed and she could smell the stink from his breath.

Though the man didn't say it directly, Azshana understood the implications well enough. She was being _sold. _"What for?"

"Lotsa reasons, dearie," he said. "Someone always in need of a live person to do what they want with. Maybe need ya for an experiment. Maybe need ya for parts - I 'member selling a human to some alchemist who needed the _freshest_ parts. You..." He looked her once over and grinned, and Azshana knew precisely what he was thinking. "...you might fetch a fair price to someone who happens to want a plaything."

He laughed again, and she did not ask anything more.

It did not take long to reach the bandits' camp, though in that time Azshana managed to learn a few things about her captors. From their discussions, she gathered that the man with the broken teeth was their leader of sorts, and also that his name was Gressle. More than that, it was clear that she was not the only one that these smugglers had taken.

The man next to her spoke for the first time when they reached camp. "Should we just throw this'un with the other?"

The makeshift camp was small, and - Azshana realized with a groan - within sight of the road. It was composed of two small tents and a massive cart that was current resting on two massive props. An aged kodo, that Azshana guessed pulled the cart, was tied nearby, grazing on the foliage. In the back of the cart, Azshana noticed, was a sort of wooden cage half-hidden by a pile of sacks and crates.

"Yeah," Gressle grunted. "Best off that way."

The man roughly grabbed her arm and took her towards the cart. He yanked the back open, and, climbed up into the cart, drew a pair of keys to unlock the wooden cage. Azshana gasped as she saw who the 'other' that the men had been referring to earlier was.

"Get inside," grunted the man, swinging the door open. He looked warily at her and then back to the other prisoner in the cage, his free hand on his sword. Getting impatient, he pulled her up onto the cart, and then threw her into the cage, locking it behind her.

Azshana was barely aware of her jailer anymore. Her focus was instead on the Troll that was sitting in the far corner, who was watching her with guarded eyes.

"Neither of you better cause any trouble," said the man outside, but Azshana was barely listening. "Gressle don't want no damaged goods."

And with that he strode away.

"You had best stay away from me, Troll," Azshana said in Darnassian. She felt very vulnerable without her weapon, and all too clearly she began to remember the tales her mother told her of the jungle trolls and their blood sacrifices and rituals. Not to mention the cannibalism...

"Wat dat supposed ta mean?" the Troll said in Common, looking up at her with darkened eyes. His face was half shadowed, and his long tusks seemed to gleam as he moved.

Azshana stood there, stunned. She had not expected the troll to be able to speak Common. What else could this troll possibly know? She found herself staring and quickly looked away. This was her first encounter with the Horde - Troll or otherwise.

"Nothing," she said, her voice quiet. The Troll simply stared at her for a long moment, as though expecting her to continue. Finally, he closed his eyes, and Azshana felt her heart begin to race once more.

_I should never have come out here._

OO

"Nothing," the Night-Elf said, and fell silent. Valzul watched her, studying her, disliking her almost instantly. What had she said in that foreign tongue of hers?

_Somthin' high n' mighty, _he thought. Leave it to Night Elves to be arrogant even when a prisoner in a cage.

It only took another moment for him to come to another conclusion.

_Dis one be afraid._

It was apparently in the way her hand clutched one of the wooden poles of the door, in the way her legs shivered as though she were freezing, and in the rapid pace of her breaths. She was terrified, and was either too weak to do anything about it or too young. Valzul decided that it was likely a mixture of both.

He closed his eyes, wanting some sleep, not overly concerned with the Night-Elf in the cage with him. He felt her watching him, and the fear that was invariably behind it.

Valzul didn't like Night-Elves. He didn't like their behavior, he didn't like their way of speaking, and he didn't like the arrogant way they looked down on him. Most of all, however, he hated the way they tried to kill him every time he ran into one of their kind.

_Dis one be harmless though, fo' now._

Indeed, it was clear that she was too terrified to move from her corner, much less do anything else. He doubted that her fear would permit her much sleep tonight, either. Her loss. This newcomer's presence certainly wouldn't keep _him_ from sleeping.

"Where are we going?" she said suddenly, in a voice barely above a whisper.

Valzul opened one eye, and saw that she hadn't moved. "I dunno," he said. "Dis cart just come out of da Thousand Needles." He had only been picked up a few days ago, and more due to his own foolishness than the skill of the smugglers. The little he knew he had picked up by overhearing the conversations of his jailers. "Mebbe goin' to Desolace."

The Night-Elf didn't reply, instead staying silent.

Valzul continued to watch her, his curiosity aroused, and slowly he saw her bend her legs so that she could sit. She stayed in the far corner, however. Cautious bordering on paranoid, as though a few extra steps would prevent him from attacking her if he truly wanted to.

"My name be Valzul," he said at length, watching for her reaction. He paused, not even sure if she heard him. "Wat be your name?"

She glared at him, her expression a mixture of anger and fear. "That's none of your concern, _Troll_."

Valzul felt his temperature rise with her sneering comment. Her tone carried the same, native arrogance all Night-Elves managed to have, and her use of the word 'Troll', as though it were an insult...

"Dat be funny dat you tink you not be my concern," he said heatedly. "When we both be stuck in da same cage."

"I don't need your help," she said disdainfully. "I can take care of myself."

Valzul's eyes flashed. "Den how did you end up here?"

"Just stay away, Troll," she warned. Her voice quavered near the end, and she tried to cover it up, but Valzul heard anyway.

_Dis Night-Elf don' know wat she be doin'._

Rather than respond, Valzul decided to let the exchange rest for the night and returned to closing his eyes, though his thoughts remained on the elf. She was not experienced, that much was clear. While a certain measure of fear was understandable - and even expected from anyone who was sane - her fear was untamed.

Valzul did not lie to himself. He feared what the smugglers would do with him as well. He knew how smugglers such as his captors operated - and in all likelihood he would end up as a source of organs and fluids for some backwater apothecary in Stonetalon. Unless he escaped, that is.

He laid back, listening, hearing her light and fast breaths, knowing that she would not be getting any sleep tonight.

"Not your problem, mon," Valzul mumbled to himself, and, after a moment, he was fast asleep.

OOO

The next morning Valzul woke to the sun beaming into his eyes. He roused himself, hearing commotion in the camp and suspecting that soon they would be moving on. He stood up, frowning as he noticed that the Night-Elf was watching him warily, her arms crossed over her knees. She had indeed not slept at all last night.

Valzul crossed the cage to get a better view of the camp, seeing that the tents were already packed away and that the smugglers were preparing to hook up the kodo to the cart. Nothing, he noted, was being left behind.

"We be leavin' soon," Valzul said to himself as much as to her. She looked up at him and he met her gaze. "If you be wantin' out of here, you need sleep." A memory of her words the previous night flashed through his mind and he added, "Or be elves too good fo' sleepin' too?"

"I don't need advice from a Troll," she muttered darkly.

"Den it be a long ride to Desolace, elfling."

The camp was almost completely packed up, and as the other two men began to bring the kodo over to the cart, Gresstle grabbed two hunks of bread out from a sack and handed them through the bars to Valzul.

"Eat," Gresstle said. "Give one to her."

Valzul nodded, taking one piece for himself and carelessly tossing the other to the elf in the corner. He took a large bite and swallowed, barely tasting it. From the corner of his eye he saw that the elf hadn't moved, and was instead staring at the bread as though it was insulting her.

"You eatin' that?" he asked, wondering why Night-Elves had to be so damned impossible.

"You expect me to eat that when it was tainted by a Troll?" she said in a scathing voice. Then, in Darnassian, she added, "_Dal'lon Rath-forn Sellet_."

Valzul turned sharply towards her, forgetting his bread. "Wat you say, _elfling_?" He felt his old anger rising, and once again wondered why he bothered speaking with this intolerable elf.

"The hands of the pure cannot mix with the hands of the sullied," she said, her eyes narrowed. "I will starve before eating that bread."

Laughter bubbled up into his throat - harsh, sharp laughter that had little to do with humor. He clutched his sides as he slid down to the ground, dropping his bread, his throat ready to break.

She stared at him, alarmed. Red entered her cheeks. "What is it that you find so amusing?"

"Pure?" Valzul echoed, grinning though it did not reach into his eyes. His laughter quickly died. "You call yourselves _pure?_ Trolls be better with magic than Night-Elf fools."

"Better? Is that what led your kind to the Soulflayer?" she said bitingly. "Yes, that was quite a performance, with the Hakkar's sacrifices and terror and-"

"You be goin' into dangerous places, elfling" said Valzul warningly. His eyes flashed at the mention of the God's name, ancient stories flitting through his head.

She was standing now, fury lighting her eyes, her arms crossed defiantly. "Then don't start what you can't finish. Maybe you trolls should start learning to control your own voodoo tricks before you start using real powers."

Valzul was becoming truly angry now. His hand involuntarily drifted to his side where he normally kept his axe. Then, remembering where he was, he raised it again. "You too small to be messin' with Trolls, elfling."

"What are you going to do, _Troll?_" asked, her voice shaking though her eyes kept their fierce light.

"Don' call me dat, elfling," he warned.

"What?"

"Don' say _Troll_ like it be an insult," Valzul snarled. He rose to his full height, her head barely come up to his shoulders, and glared down at her.

"Then maybe you shouldn't say _elfling _like an insult, either," she retorted. "Besides, Troll barbarity makes it so that I hardly have to make it an insult."

Valzul knew _exactly_ what she was referring to. "Den mebbe I should go ahead and eat you, eh? Make myself a nice meal. Cook you up in a pot and have at it."

The sudden fear in her eyes told him all he needed to know. He snorted and turned his back towards her, returning to his corner. "You elves don' know anything," he spat.

A sudden banging on the side of the cage stopped their exchange instantly. It was Gressle, his face red, looking between the Night-Elf and the Troll suspiciously.

"I don't want any trouble back here," he snapped. "You two keep away from each other - I don't need to be taking any price hits because of delivering damaged goods."

Gressle stared at the Troll. "Will that be a problem?"

"Nah, mon," said Valzul.

He turned his attention to the Night-Elf. "How about you?"

She looked at Gressle for a moment, glancing once at Valzul. "No."

"Good," Gressle said, then, looking inside the cage, saw Valzul's half-eaten piece of bread along side the Night-Elf's untouched piece. "Eat up, we're moving soon." He stepped away from the cage and returned to the front of the cart.

Valzul made no move to pick up his bread. Though his anger had cooled, he was still not in the mood for eating. He also felt more than a little ashamed - a Troll without self-control was a dead control, and he had shown no self-control.

_How she get you all riled up, mon?_ he asked himself. Never before had he been in such an argument before. _Dis be no good. If you to get out of dis, you need her. And she be needin' you too._

Valzul risked a glance in her direction, and noticed that her head was against the wall and her eyes were closed - fast asleep. The night had caught up with her.

He reached over and grabbed the piece of bread that he dropped during their argument, and promptly finished it. He was never one to waste food. He bordered on taking the piece that she abandoned as well, but, after a moment, decided against it. He was sure that she would be hungry when she woke.

Valzul took another moment to watch her as the cart slowly began rumbling away from camp. From the front he heard the grunts of the kodo as it tried to work up momentum, and he shifted his position to make himself more comfortable as the cart ran through the ruts and dips in the roughly cut path that they were taking.

It did not seem to bother the Night-Elf, however, as she was still fast asleep, her dark hair almost covering her eyes, despite the calls from the men up front and the many jolts they were receiving as the cart rode across a particularly rough patch.

Valzul did not see much in her. There was a fire in her anger, sure, but that was more fueled by her fear than anything. She was a manifestation of all the arrogance and intolerance that he saw in the Night-Elf race, and that did little to make him want to work with her.

But work with her he shall. He would need her to escape this place - he was certain. It was of little consequence of how offensive he found her - the reality was that he would have to tolerate her to live.

And, more than anything, Trolls knew how to survive.


	2. Live and Let Live

_(A/N: Not going to pretend that this will be lore-proof. My primary goal here is to tell a good story with good characters and everything else can be secondary. Feel welcome to leave a review on your way out. Without further ado...)_

Azshana slept for the greater part of the day, and when she finally woke she kept her eyes tightly closed, not wanting to refresh all those memories from the previous day that she was hoping was just a bad dream. She stayed that way for several minutes, listening to the cart creak and groan over the uneven path, until finally she opened her eyes to the beaming sun.

Judging from the sun's height in the sky it was late afternoon, and, looking around, she saw that they were still in the depths of Feralas, taking some backwoods road that she did not even know existed.

Azshana turned, seeing that the Troll was watching her, and returned his gaze. She had not intended to have fallen asleep in the presence of that _creature_ in the corner, but it happened. She certainly did not trust him, and half-feared that he would throttle her in her sleep if he had the chance. But then, with the men so close by, perhaps he would not chance it. Eventually, the Troll broke off his gaze and stared idly outside the cage.

Azshana thought back to the earlier argument that she had with the Troll, feeling a small measure of embarrassment at what she had said. But not too much.

_Some of the things that cretin had said_, she seethed to herself. _Calling me a fool and...an elfling._ She wasn't entirely sure why she found the latter so offensive.

_And what did he mean when he said "You elves don' know anything"?_

The question was starting to bother her. What did that mean? At length, she decided not to think too much about it. After all, she wasn't dealing with a normal, civilized person.

Slowly, her thoughts began to drift back to home, and, specifically, her mother.

Azshana could only begin to imagine what her mother would have to say about her current predicament. Surely something about not listening to her enough. _And now you're captured, caged, and thrown with in with a Troll._

She sometimes felt guilty over leaving her mother in Darnassus, especially with her ever-degrading sight. Blindness was beginning to take over her mother, and Azshana regretted leaving before her mother had time to adjust. But Azshana _had_ to. Some things couldn't wait.

Besides, she originally thought she could always return to Darnassus later. Azshana did not consider that at some point she would be unable to.

Realizing that she was still watching the Troll, she looked away, and her eyes fell on the untouched piece of bread that he had thrown to her. Azshana remembered what she had rashly said previously, and now, more keenly aware of the rumbling in her stomach, she was bordering on reaching over and taking it. Her eyes once again flitted to the Troll, surprised that he hadn't taken it while she slept.

_He probably prefers flesh over bread,_ she decided. Yes, Trolls were widely known for their preference for cannibalism.

Quietly, she extended her hand and picked up the bread, bringing it to her lap and tearing off a small piece. It was old and stale, and she was sure that she could smell where the Troll's hands had touched it. However, hunger overrode her pride and quickly she chewed and swallowed it.

Azshana looked up and saw that the Troll was once again staring at her, an unreadable expression on his face. She glared at him, expecting him to make some insulting remark, but instead he turned away, returning his attention to the outside.

She slowly finished eating her bread, her mind still on the Troll in the corner. He had offered Azshana his name, she vaguely recalled, and now she wondered what his motives were.

_I'll have to be careful,_ she told herself. If she wanted to have any chance of escaping, she would need help, and that help would have to be provided by that Troll - the same Troll that she had argued with earlier that day.

Azshana knew from what she read that Trolls had long memories and longer arms. They were wretched and spiteful, and she knew that the moment that this one had a clear chance he would kill her and take her head to his chief.

"Won' be long now," said the Troll. Azshana suddenly stopped eating. She had harbored a blind hope that he had somehow forgotten about her. "One day, two day mebbe."

"Until what, Tr-" Azshana stopped herself, remembering their argument, and instead said again, "Until what?" If they were to work together, she would need to at least be on acceptable terms with him. At least one of them would need to act civilized, and Azshana decided that it would be her.

The Troll glanced darkly at her, hearing her slip-up. "Desolace."

Azshana did not reply, understanding what he was telling her. They would have one day to find a way out of this cage - two days at most. For the first time she carefully examined the cage around her, studying its sturdy wooden bars, it's lock, at last frowning. There were no apparent weaknesses, and she had no tools to work with...

She suddenly looked curiously in the Troll's direction.

...unless the Troll did.

The Troll - as those sensing her gaze and reading her intent - turned his head halfway, as though listening. The men in the front of the cart were talking and laughing and seemed altogether distracted. This, combined with the fact that the cage was partially obscured by piles of supplies and other materials gave them a perfect opportunity.

Almost lazily, the Troll stood up and wandered to what she was beginning to view as 'her' side of the cage. She stiffened as he sat next to her, resting his head on the wall, his eyes only half-open. Her nose crinkled as she smelled the stench wafting from him, and carefully she scooted away, feeling very uncomfortable at their close proximity.

"Four hands be better dan two in gettin' out," the Troll said, not looking at her. "Wat you say to dat?"

Azshana did not answer at first, as she was still preoccupied with the short distance he was from her - striking distance. However, when she looked up and say his calm - almost relaxed - expression. She fleetingly wondered whether that expression was intended to be for her benefit.

She gritted her teeth. The Troll knew that she was wary of him.

"What do you have in mind?" Azshana knew it was not a direct answer to his question, and intended it to be that way. What do you have to offer?

"Dese men be human," the Troll said evasively. "Dese men be part of da Alliance?"

"These men are as much a part of the Alliance as the Gurubashi are of the Horde," said Azshana with more heat than she intended. Did he seriously think that _these_ men were part of the Alliance?

"An' you?" the Troll continued. "You be alone? Or are dere other Night-Elves coming?" He waved one hand vaguely into the forest.

Azshana narrowed her eyes, not liking the subject of the question. "You won't get any information about the Alliance out of me."

The Troll cast her an annoyed look. "I don' care 'bout da Alliance. I care 'bout gettin' out of 'ere alive. I be alone, so no Horde comin' for me. If you have da Alliance comin', well..."

"I'm not about to betray the Alliance by telling you _anything_," Azshana said sharply. "Whether or not I have companions nearby doesn't concern you."

In fact, she did not expect anyone to come looking for her anytime soon. She worked alone, and her superiors would not notice her disappearance for several days yet - possibly more.

But she received a strange pleasure in withholding that piece of information.

"I'm not fightin' for da Horde," said the Troll. "I be no traitor, but I be no fool either. You tink your Alliance friends care 'bout dat?"

Azshana eyed him carefully, unsure of whether to believe him. The Troll was claiming to be uninvolved in the war - to be a bystander. But what a Troll said and what a Troll did were two very different things.

"That's not my problem," she heard herself saying.

"Course not," the Troll said. "But I don' tink I have much to worry 'bout. No one be comin' for you, I can tell."

"Is that so," Azshana said. "How would you know, _Troll_?" The last word slipped off her tongue unintentionally - he was starting to irritate her.

The Troll either didn't hear her or didn't care anymore. "Because no one be as afraid as you when dey have friends comin'," he said harshly.

"I'm not afraid," she said, lying. In truth the entire situation was beginning to break her down. Darnassus had been stifling but it also had been _safe_, and the prospect of capture and death had not been something she seriously considered.

"You and all da Night-Elves," the Troll said. "You all lie ta yourselves."

Azshana silently seethed, trying to remember why she was bothering to try and have a conversation with him. Then, she remembered.

"So is there a reason you're over here?" she asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice.

"Ya, dere was," the Troll said. "But now I don' think you be worth it."  
Azshana's eyes went wide with surprise as the Troll got up to return to his side of the cage. He did not glance back at her - indeed, he was pointedly avoiding her gaze.

"Wait," she said suddenly.

He stopped, slowly turning his head around as though through great effort. "Wat?"

Azshana sighed, knowing it was time to shelf her pride in favor of her own preservation. "Come back."

The Troll stared at her for a moment before narrowing his eyes. "I don' take orders from some elf."

Azshana knew she was being tested. She would not beg. She would never beg. "Come back, _please_."

The Troll did not move, as though considering her words. He stood there for a long moment, leaning against the wall of the cage, being jostled slightly as the cart went over rocks and dips in the road. Azshana watched him with ill-concealed nervousness, wondering whether he would go back to his corner or come back to her. She tried to read his expression, but found it to be - like everything else about him - completely foreign.

"I s'ppose I could do dat," the Troll said at last, something like a smirk crossing his features and then vanishing before she could clearly identify it. With the ambiguity in the Troll's expressions, she wondered if she misunderstood it.

He sat back down next to her, and she tried to ignore the smell that once again invaded her nostrils.

_Don't Trolls bathe?_she asked herself, resisting the temptation to pinch her nose.

A second thought surfaced in her mind. _Probably not a lot of opportunities to do that when you're locked up in a cage._

"Four hands are better than two," she said, referencing the words that he used she he originally came to her.

"Good dat you see it my way," said the Troll, his voice devoid of any humor or sarcasm. He paused for a moment, and then in a lower voice continued, "Da humans be stopping soon to change carts."

Azshana raised an eyebrow. "How do you know this?"

The Troll tapped his ear with one long finger. "I be listening when dey tink I'm not," he said. "Dey be changin' carts tonight, and dey will be needin' to move us. We both can take'em den, when dey try ta move us."

"The smugglers aren't stupid," said Azshana, feeling all too uncomfortable with the Troll's idea. "They'll be expecting that."

"No," the Troll said, his eyes lighting up. "Dat be the trick. Dey will try to move us tonight, when dey tink we be sleepin'. But we won' sleep." He looked at her meaningfully, as though trying to get a point across.

Azshana did not say so, but she doubted that the Troll's plan would be as simple as he said it would be. For one, the men would undoubtedly be armed, and for another the plan required a certain amount of trust. What if he intended for her to attack first, and then didn't support her as she got overwhelmed? Or tried to flee as she fought?

As though sensing her thoughts, the Troll added, "I be no backstabber. If you fight, I fight, and den we both go home."

Azshana wasn't much reassured by the Troll's words. Deceitfulness and outright lying would not be below a desperate Troll. And even if they did escape, she harbored no doubt that the Troll would kill her the first chance he got after they were out of harm's way. There was little appeal in attempting to fight a troll while unarmed.

But she had little choice. It was either escape with him or allow herself to be sold by the smugglers - and she had no intention of letting the latter happen. Given the nature of the smugglers' business, she would much rather risk it with the Troll.

Besides, if Azshana managed to separate herself from him during the escape, there would be little risk of him later being able to find her. It would be all too easy to preserve herself without attempting to trick him.

"Fine," Azshana said at length. She turned towards the Troll. "I'll trust you for this."

OO

_She be a liar._

Valzul knew she was lying the moment the words rolled off her tongue.

_Yes, she be a liar, but a fool she is not._

He had no intention of risking his tusks for a Night-Elf. The fact that she had the same mindset just made it a little bit easier for him.

"Den we have an agreement," Valzul said, standing up. He glanced furtively to the front of the cart, seeing that the humans were still preoccupied, and returned to his corner, glad to be away from the elf.

It did not fill him with any particular sense of pride to know that he was going to betray the hapless Night-Elf. He simply chose the route of survival. He did not deny it: the world was likely better off with one less Night-Elf in it, though that wasn't a factor in his decision.

At least not the _only_ factor.

He was a proud member of Darkspear, loyal to Thrall, and it brought him a measure of satisfaction - not _pride _- to know that one of the Thrall's enemies was going to be removed. He had not forgotten the aid the Orcs had given to his tribe, and he was prepared - like any respectable Troll - to return that favor.

As for the Night-Elf with him...he was not even sure what she was doing here. One so obviously young and inexperienced.

_It be a long way from Darnassus._

If anything, Valzul wished she was older. Ending it so early seemed unfair.

_Ya, it be unfair. But dat's da way of life. She'd do da same to you if she had da chance. Don' tink dat just 'cause she be young dat she be any better dan da older ones._

Valzul knew this to be true. The Night-Elf reputation was well-deserved.

They traveled for a short while longer, the sun passing further down the sky, and Valzul took the time to stretch in the settling heat. The temperature was becoming comfortable now, and the trees along the path were now tall enough to block out the light from the sun and permit them some shade.

They stopped near a shallow stream, letting the wheezing kodo rest, and soon the men began unpacking some supplies and refreshing themselves in the cool stream. After a few minutes Gressle came back, bearing two pieces of bread along with a small jug of what Valzul presumed to be water.

"Dinner," Gressle grunted, extending the food and drink through the bars. "We'll be stoppin' here for a bit."

Valzul took one piece of bread and the jug, leaving the Night-Elf to take the remaining piece herself. He returned to his corner, setting the jug by his side, tearing off some bread with his teeth. It went down his dry throat like sand. He took a drink of the water, not realizing how thirsty he was, thinking it tasted good even though it was far too warm. He took a bite, another swig, then for the first time looked towards the Night-Elf.

"I take it you don' be wantin' dis now?" Valzul said, raising the jug.

She glared at him, and, in response, he set the jug down and gave it a strong push, watching as it slid across the floor of the cage all the way to her legs. She stared at it for a moment, then carefully picked it up and took a small drink before putting it down again. She took a small bite of her bread.

_Enjoy your meal, elfling, _Valzul thought without malice. _Dat be your last one._

A few minutes later and the Night-Elf handed the empty jug to Gressle through the bars. His hair was soaked from when he evidently washed it in the stream, and he was wearing a wide grin that seemed less-than-inviting with his blackened teeth.

"Either of ya need to use the bushes?" he asked. "I imagine ya both have been fairly uncomfortable back here all day."

The Night-Elf nodded but Valzul muttered "I'll be fine."

Given the fact that all three men were present and looking ready for trouble made an escape during this time impossible. It was much better - and less risky - to do it during the night when Gressle thought they'd be groggy from sleep. Besides, human sight was notoriously poor, and the darkness would provide the cover he'd need to escape.

Cautiously, Gressle unlocked the cage and escorted the Night-Elf away, his free hand warily holding a sword that he had not seen before - the elf's sword, Valzul guessed. The other two locked the cage and followed him, both wielding their rusted weapons loosely at their sides.

When they returned Gressle quickly took the Night-Elf back to the cage, sheathing his sword and locking her back in.

Valzul's mind had gone back to the plan for the night when he heard a deep, rumbling noise from behind him. He whirled around, his ears prickling, searching. He vaguely heard one of the men behind him move as well, now talking hurriedly to Gressle.

"I didn't hear nothin'," Gressle said, finishing the lock. "You hear something?" he asked to the other man.

Valzul did not check for the other man's response. He was trying to get a decent view down the path. He was unsure of which direction the sound had come from - maybe it wasn't on the path at all, but down the stream?

"What is it?" the Night-Elf whispered, startling him as he realized she had left her corner and was now directly beside him. Her eyes were wide and it was clear that she too heard the sound.

Valzul did not answer. He moved to the other side of the cage, trying to look down that way, but found that his view was partially obscured by stacks of supplies. Gressle and his men had returned to the front of the cart - one man looking nervously in all directions while Gressle and the last man prepared to leave. Even the kodo was becoming restless, shifting uneasily in its harness as its head turned from side to side.

Gressle seemed supremely unconcerned. He either had not heard the noise, or did not find it threatening.

Valzul, however, did. He was familiar enough with the world to recognize the deep, throaty bellow of an ogre anywhere. Granted, the one he had heard was far enough away, but where there was one ogre, there were thirty more. Feralas, he knew, was home to the Gordok ogre tribe, and if this backwoods path led past one of their encampments...

"What is it?" the Night-Elf repeated with more urgency.

Valzul was about to move away again when she grabbed his arm. He turned, surprised, and she quickly let go. "Dere be ogres out here," he hissed. "And dat sound be an ogre if I ever heard one."

Some of the color left her face. "...Ogres?"

Valzul nodded, fighting to stay calm, knowing that the absolute worst place to be during an encounter with ogres was trapped in a flimsy wooden cage.

"If dey come, we stay down," he said as much for himself as for her.

He looked down at her, seeing the fear in her eyes. _An' da mighty Night-Elf comes to da Troll when da ogres come callin',_ he thought bitterly.

He turned away. "We need ta get out of here mon," Valzul said to Gressle, who was stacking the last of the supplies.

"I've taken this road fifty times," Gressle said. "Nothin's ever around here."

Vazul very much doubted that claim, but remained silent. There was another, louder rumbling shout - this time much closer. Gressle stared up in shock, the blood draining from his face.

"It be comin' from downstream."

Gressle barely acknowledged Vazul's words, and instead dropped the sack that he was carrying and ordered the other two men to get onto the cart. "We're leavin'," he was saying, his voice on the edge of panic. "Now!"

But even as he spoke, a large, towering figure peered around the thick trees huddling around the stream - a small, pudgy head set atop a hulking body. Valzul watched as the ogre's beady eyes turned towards him, and, with an expression that could only be interpreted as anger, it let out a bellow.

"Humans!" the ogre rumbled, dragging a thick club like a tree out from behind him.

"Go!" Gressle shouted, grabbing the kodo's reins and pulling sharply. The kodo began to make great wheezing noises, as though it were gasping for air. It began to sway in its harness, back and forth, and Valzul grabbed onto the side of the cage to remain steady.

The ogre roared again, this time raising its club and stepping towards them.

Gressle snapped the reins again. "Go, damn you!" He grabbed something from behind him and hurled it at the kodo, who stood frozen in place. One of the men by his side glanced once at the ogre, then at him, and fled from the cart.

"Dis be bad," Valzul muttered under his breath. He looked around the cage, trying to find a weapon or an escape or _something_ that would get him away from the ogre.

"Me smash!" the ogre roared. It slowly lumbered towards the cart, its face twisted into a sort of sneer, swinging its enormous club in the air as though it weighed nothing. The ogre raised it, suspending it over his head for a moment, and then brought it violently down into the ground, driving it into the earth in a flurry of mud and rock.

The kodo snapped out of its petrified state, and, abruptly, it pulled to the right and towards the woods, trying to escape into the trees. The cart groaned and protested as the sheer strength of the struggling kodo forced it to turn - one wheel leaving the ground as the entire cart began to tilt.

"Easy!" Gressle shrieked, waving his arms into the air as he scrambled to grab hold of something. "Stop-"

Valzul moved to the back - away from the ogre, holding onto the wall with all his strength. He glanced towards the Night-Elf, who was still at his side staring dumbstruck at the ogre. The entire cart began to shake and slide, supplies and crates falling.

"Hold on-" Valzul said, and at once the entire cart flipped on its side - the wooden cage that contained them shattering into splinters and it hit the ground. He hit the ground gracelessly, landing on his shoulder, the back of his head bouncing off of a loose board. He groaned as a tower of sacks, crates, and _everything_ toppled over him.

The cart continued to slowly slide over the ground as the kodo pulled, the leather harness that held it straining not to come apart. The ogre lifted its club once more, grinning widely, and threw it downwards onto the front of the cart, crushing it into the earth and breaking it to pieces. The kodo's harness snapped, and finally relieved of its burden it fled off at a surprising speed across the stream and into through the trees.

The ogre lifted its club again and pounded the scattered debris. "Smash good! Need more smash!" It lazily picked up a spare wooden wheel, looking at it with vague interest, and then flicked it away.

Gressle and the remaining man, scampering to their feet after being thrown off the cart, took one last look at the ogre and dashed away, vanishing into the undergrowth at the roadside.

Valzul, dazed, pushed his way out of the broken remnants of the cage, dragging himself over the crates before kneeling behind the shattered back half of the cart. He peered around it, seeing that the ogre was still preoccupied with stomping the cart and its contents into dust. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the forest was less than a stone's throw away, and grinned.

_Who need a Night-Elf ta help ya escape when ya can have an ogre?_

The Night-Elf. He looked around curiously, wondering where she had gone, and then saw her still struggling underneath a particularly heavy piece of board that had fell across her legs when the cart tipped over. Her right leg was bent at an odd angle, and she was clawing at the ground in an attempt to drag herself away from the towering ogre nearby. It would not be long before the creature turned its attention towards her.

"Help!" he heard her say.

Valzul did not move. He watched her squirm - knowing that he had intended to betray her all along, and that the simple fact that an ogre interfered did not change much.

_Dis only be what she deserve. She was gonna do da same to you, 'member?_

That was not entirely true. He _suspected_ she was going to do the same - not _knew._ But regardless of what she had intended, it bothered him that she would die helpless due to circumstances beyond her control.

_You owe dis to da Thrall._

_Dis has nothin' to do wit da Thrall, mon. _

A moment passed, and, now fully resolved, he turned his back on her and moved to escape into the forest. It bothered him - but when the sun set, she was a Night-Elf, and that was what mattered. He stuck to what he decided before - he would not risk his tusks for some arrogant Night-Elf.

Valzul would do what Trolls did best - live and let die. And if she did the dying part, well, that was her problem.

Quietly, and not looking back, he crawled towards the forest, hearing the grunts and roars of the ogre as it smashed the cart to bits.

"Help!" he heard the Night-Elf say again - this time a bit louder. Almost loud enough to attract the attention of the ogre.

Valzul ignored her, saying nothing in response. There was nothing he needed to say.

Her voice called out again - and this time he froze. "Valzul!"

He whirled around, surprised, recalling that he had only given her his name once, and that he had originally thought she was not even listening. It had a bizarre effect on him, as though she had struck a personal cord in him, and he looked at her quizzically. The Night-Elf had not moved from her position under the debris, and her arm was extended, as though reaching for him, and her eyes pleaded.

"Please..." she said - or he saw her say. Valzul did not hear her but saw her lips move and knew what she meant. He glanced back at the forest, then back to her, struggling to make a decision.

_Don' be doin' dis, _he warned himself. _Dis be an elf! Ya undastan'?_

A second voice countered: _Dere be somethin' wrong wit lettin' someone die like dat, elf or no._

Valzul lowered his head, quelling the protests in his mind, and then raised it again - staring directly at the Night-Elf. Whether it was the result of her using his name, her desperate pleas, or something else entirely, Valzul had no idea, but he had wrapped his mind around one simple concept.

He would not let that Night-Elf die today.

He crept back to the cage, taking care to stay out of the sight of the ogre, hoping that he was not doing something that he would later regret. When Valzul reached her, he realized that she was worse-off than he originally believed, and that her right leg was moist with a dark liquid. He felt her hand on his shoulder as he pulled away the boards, trying to avoid making any unnecessary noise. While an ogre's eyesight was terrible, its hearing was not, and whether this one would take any interest in pounding them both into oblivion was unclear.

But so far the ogre had been ignoring them, and Valzul could only hope that this would continue.

Once she was free from the boars, he knelt over her legs to examine them, seeing that while the left one was not in too bad of shape, the right would require some attention. She gasped when he touched her, and there was a long gash where the board had evidently first fallen.

She was in no position to walk anywhere - much less run.

There was a furious roar and Valzul turned to see that the ogre had finally become bored with the front half of the cart and was now coming back for them. His eyes went wide, and without hesitating he lifted her from the cage and fled - glancing once over his shoulder to see that the ogre was indeed giving chase. He felt the Night-Elf's arms go around his neck to hold on as he leaped from the path and into the foliage.

"Me need elf!" it bellowed, pausing at the fringes of the thick forest. It thrust its head out between two trees and snuffed the air, as though trying to smell out its prey.

But Valzul and the Night-Elf were already gone, sprinting through the bushes and vines, not looking back. He felt her grip tighten around him as he pushed his way through a particularly dense thicket of bramble, and, once they were through, he slowed his pace.

"T-t-thank you," she said faintly, and Valzul, breathing heavily, looked down at her. Blood was running fast down her legs, and her luminous eyes - normally bright and glowing - were dimmed.

She would not survive unless he tended her wounds, and Valzul did not pull her away from the ogre only so that she would bleed to death in the middle of the forest. He found a small clearing and set her down, taking care to move any rocks or jagged sticks away.

"You not be lookin' too good," Valzul said, taking a moment to more carefully examine the deep gash on her right leg. He frowned.

Valzul had not been trained as a healer. Indeed, natural troll regeneration made such knowledge useless to him. He knew simple rules, and simple remedies. He knew that the amount of blood freely flowing from her wound was a bad thing, and that he would need to apply some sort of pressure in order for it to stop.

Quickly he tore a length of leather from his jerkin. While it was not particularly clean, it would have to do.

Her eyes followed him, her lips moving as she tried to speak. Her voice was soft and weak, and he could barely hear her.

"Don' talk," Valzul said gruffly.

After ensuring the wound was free of any splinters or debris, he gingerly wrapped the leather around her leg - feeling tremors of pain run through her as he did so. He tied it, and with one quick effort pulled it tight. Valzul inspected the bandage, making sure it was secure, optimistic that it would last until he at least acquired the necessary herbs from the jungle to aid in the healing process.

He vent over to inspect her other leg, seeing if there was anything that he had missed.

Again, he noticed her mumbling something, and, slightly irritated, moved closer to her head.

_Wat be so damned important dat she need to say it now._

"You be wastin' your energy," Valzul said sharply. He was not going to permit her to die - not after what he risked.

_An' you be a fool if ya tink dat ya only risk was wit dat ogre. Ya betta' hope no Orcs come wonderin' out here._

She tried to speak again, looking meaningfully at him. Sighing, Valzul lowered his ear to her mouth, straining to listen.

"My n-name...Azshana," Valzul heard her say. He lifted his head again, frowning. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that this elf had lost her sanity the moment she fell off that cart. He didn't think that any of the boxes that fell were quite that heavy, though...

"Azshana," he repeated slowly, and she nodded, as though this were supremely important. He watched her for another moment, unsure what to make of her. Finally he said, "Res' now, Azshana."

And, without further protest, she did.


	3. A Night in Feralas

_Where am I?_

Azshana's head swam, her legs ached, and every part of her body felt sore. Slowly, she brought up her hand to rub her stiff neck, though other than that she did not move. Moving was uncomfortable.

Finally, she opened her eyes to the beams of sun shining through the treetops. She quickly looked away and tried to scoot to her right in order to get out of the painful rays. Azshana gasped as a sharp pang shot through her leg, and she quickly grew still, not wanting to disturb it further.

_What happened to me?_

Awareness flooded her mind like a wave as all of the scenes from the previous day flashed and died in a split second. The men - the ogre - the cart. Azshana pressed her hand on her forehead, trying to will the memories to stop, her head beginning to pound from the onslaught. But it did not stop.

An image of her laying underneath the shattered cage appeared in her mind, and, next, her calling the Troll - not the Troll, but Valzul - to come back. How she could recall his name she did not know - indeed, she was not even entirely sure how she knew his name in the first place.

Then another memory surfaced, and it seemed like it was from a long time ago though it had only been two days.

"My name be Valzul," he had said. "Wat be your name?"

Her reply was all too clear in her mind. Azshana grimaced inwardly. "That's none of your concern, _Troll._"

_Troll._ It had been that Troll that rescued her, even though he had every reason not to. It was a strange twist of irony, especially when she had once thought Valzul would kill her the moment he had the chance.

Azshana frowned as a question presented itself. Why did he save her?

Everything that she knew about Trolls indicated that they were ultimately self-serving creatures. Her mother, her teachers, and most books all spoke of Troll savagery, and until now she had no reason to doubt it. Indeed, they were very rarely wrong, and it was ridiculous to assume that Trolls had earned their reputation by accident.

Azshana rested for another moment, thinking back to the few exchanges that she had with Valzul, unable to find a satisfactory response to her question. She simply did not know enough - and it would be naive for her to assume that it was sheer benevolence on Valzul's part that led him to save her from death. In fact, a cynical part of her mind suspected that Valzul simply had more sinister plans for her, and that he had only saved her in order to take her back to his Thrall - alive and ready for interrogation. Azshana suppressed that line of thought - not willing and not wanting to recognize where that reality might lead.

But her cynical side would not so easily be deterred. Her mind drifted again, this time to a conversation she had with her mother - just before leaving Teldrassil.

"Stand closer, Azshana," her mother began, framing her daughter's face with her hands and bringing it down to where she could see. She was close to complete blindness, and Azshana knew that her mother could barely see anything but vague shapes - even less, at a distance. "You know what I think of your choice to fight for the Alliance..."

"Yes," Azshana said in a whisper. It was always difficult seeing her mother this way - it seemed like the blindness had struck her with merciless speed.

"Then listen to me this once," she continued, her voice still carrying its strong tones. "I know you never take my advice, but take this. Please, just this."

It took Azshana a moment to realize her mother was waiting for a response. "I will," she said, taking her mother's hand in hers, finding it hard to speak clearly. It was not supposed to be this difficult.

Her mother was never one to speak quietly, but the amount of conviction and strength that entered her voice surprised even Azshana. "Then stay away from the fighting. The Horde are _monsters_, Azshana. They are our enemies, and I believe they always will be until we wipe every last one off the continent. I do not want my- my only daughter - my only child - to put her life in more danger than what is necessary."

"Not all this is about fighting," she continued. "Work in the city, forwarding supplies to the military encampments, or _something_ that doesn't put you too close to the Horde." She took her hand and ran it down the side of Azshana's face, as though trying to memorize it before she left. "They are liars, murderers, traitors, and thieves, and are not above doing even the most vile of things to you. Stay away from them, and do not let yourself fall into a position where you must fight them. The deaths of a hundred Orcs are not worth risking your life..."

_I'm sorry, mother, _Azshana presently thought to herself. She had risked herself by taking that scouting mission and her mother's fears had been realized.

But the words were all too clear. The Horde were evil. She could not trust the Horde. The Horde were the enemy.

_And the evil Horde saved your life._

_Don't take it at face value,_ the cynical voice countered.

Feeling a little bit better, Azshana opened her eyes again, this time to get an idea of where she was. Last she remembered, she was in a small clearing, surrounded by foliage, Valzul hovering over her as he bandaged the open wound on her leg. Now she was on a bed of mixed moss and ferns, between the trunks of two exceptionally thick trees, a rock wall behind her and a screen of bushes in front. Her leg was propped up in an attempt to keep the bandage and her wound from laying in the soil.

Valzul was nowhere to be seen, and Azshana fleetingly wondered if he abandoned her. But what would he leave her to die after going to the trouble of rescuing her? She could barely move her right leg, definitely could not walk, and was in no position to care for herself.

It disturbed her to realize that her life was now - whether she like it or not - dependent on Valzul. Azshana was not sure how long it would be before she could move comfortably again, and could only hope that the amount of time she would have to rely on the Troll was short.

Suddenly she heard noises from beyond the bushes in front of her - rustling and grunts and cursing in Common. Azshana reached to her side and felt a chill of vulnerability as she realized that she was unarmed and defenseless. She stared towards the bushes expectantly, unsure of what she would do if danger burst through but knowing that somehow she would fight.

"Damn you," someone grunted. A man.

Her mind flashed back to Gressle and the smugglers and she wondered if it was them again, trying to reclaim their prisoners. Azshana was not about to let them. She was not going to return to the cage - not again. The sound was becoming louder, and was clearly approaching her spot behind the bushes. She waited, every muscle in her body tense.

Two figures burst through - but not two humans. One was a towering and furious Troll who was holding a struggling human by his neck. While she did not get a good luck at him, she knew immediately that the human was one of Gressle's men. She leaned away as Valzul slammed the man into the tree, the man's feet kicking wildly almost a foot off the ground, his arms flailing, but to no avail. His face was bruised and bloody, and his clothes torn in what obviously had been quite a fight. For his part, Valzul was bleeding along his arm and was cut at several other places, but it was clear that the human had fared worse.

Azshana was at a loss for words. "What- Who is-"

Valzul turned towards her, grinning behind his tusks. "Dinner."

She stared at him wearing an expression of pure horror.

_Elune protect me._

Valzul snorted in half-hidden laughter and returned his attention to the human, who seemed to struggle even more violently at the Troll's response.

Azshana, however, could not keep her mouth from sagging open. _Surely he's not serious._

"Found dis one in da woods," Valzul said, taking the man's arm with his free hand and slowly twisting it. The man got the message and quickly grew still, his eyes darting rapidly between the Troll and Azshana. "He tried to kill me. He didn'."

"So why bring him back here?" she asked slowly, too shocked to take her eyes off the man.

"I don' know where we be," Valzul said. "I don't know Feralas too well. _He_-" Valzul tightened his grip for emphasis and the man grunted. "-does know where we be. He can tell us where to go."

Azshana remained silent, still looking at the man, seeing more confidence and cockiness than one would expect from someone in his position. Something was wrong. She was not sure if he would - or _could_ - give them the information they needed.

"Dis man won' speak to me, though," Valzul said. "I be Horde." He turned pointedly to her. "But you be Alliance."

She saw him turn and understood the unspoken message. The smuggler was a man. Valzul was a Troll. The man might be more open to speaking with someone whose race he was not outright hostile with.

"Valzul, could you let him down please?" Azshana said.

Valzul hesitated, and then released. The man collapsed to the ground, gasping, staring up at the Troll and then back to her. He seemed to be in a state of shock.

"Gressle would find this to be mighty interestin'," the man said, his throat strained, though he still managed to put on a twisted sort of grin. "A Troll an' an elf runnin' out here...ain't that a pretty sight."

"Where are we?" Azshana asked flatly, meeting the man's gaze.

The man seemed put off by her bluntness. Quickly he recovered, his old grin sliding back on. "Feralas, o' course."

"How do we return to the main road?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. It was clear that the man was preferring to play games.

He snorted. "Do I look like a map?"

"We can make this easy, difficult, or bloody," Azshana said, echoing the words that Gressle used when he originally captured her. It had the desired effect - the man's face paled considerably. "Which would you have it?"

Slowly, the man climbed to his feet, looking nervously between her and Valzul. It was an expression unlike the confidence-cum-arrogance that he wore only moments ago. The Troll had not moved, his face set like stone as he watched the smuggler move.

"We're not far from the main road," the man said finally, his forehead becoming slick with sweat - though not necessarily from the heat. "Gressle always liked usin' that little path because it more or less followed the main one, it just wasn't used by Horde or Alliance patrols." A wry grin crossed his face. "But that is because it passes the Gordok camp, and it's not safe. Only used by us anymore, as far as I know."

"So where are we?" Azshana asked. Something about this was wrong. He was speaking much too easily, as though he was trying to buy time for something. Or waiting.

"Just a bit south of the main road," he continued. His eyes flickered towards Valzul and he shifted his weight onto one foot. "Trek north for a short while and you'll run right into it."

Azshana felt the hairs on her neck stand up, but, glancing at Valzul, it was clear that the Troll did not sense anything amiss. He was now leaning casually against a tree, watching the proceedings with intense interest.

Suddenly the man folded his hands behind his back and she saw it - a glint of metal in a hidden sheath behind his leg. Her eyes went wide, though she quickly recovered. If she spoke aloud, the man might panic and make a reckless lunge.

"How long of a walk is it?" she asked, wanting to keep him talking. She kept glancing at Valzul, trying to catch his eye.

"Not long," he said simply, no longer looking at her.

Her mind raced as she tried to come up with a new question. "Are there a lot of, err, trees?"

Valzul glanced at her quizzically, as though to say "What sort of question is that?" This gave Azshana her opportunity. She meaningfully stared at him, then down to the man's leg. She knew time was running short, and soon it would be clear to the man that his hidden dagger had been discovered.

"Trees..." the man said, raising one eyebrow at her. "Well..." His hand drifted almost casually to his leg.

Valzul looked at her, then back at the man, and then, as though with sudden realization, stiffened and raised his arms as though he was about to grab the man's neck again.

At that same moment, however, the man drew a long, thin blade from his hidden pocket, turning to thrust it into the Troll's stomach. Instead, Valzul parried his blow, and captured the man's hand with his own, crushing it. The man cried out, releasing the dagger, and Valzul quickly knocked it aside. He turned his attention back to the man's neck, which he grabbed, lifted, and then hurled backwards against the rock.

The man crumpled to the ground, groaning, and Azshana saw his eyes graze over the clearing in search of his dagger. She found it first and quickly snatched it, holding it close to her side in case the smuggler came after her.

However, the man got no such chance. Valzul lifted him yet again, his face an expression of pure rage, and held him in the air for a moment. The smuggler, gathering some of his wits, lashed out with his hand and tried to gouge the Troll's eye, causing Valzul to howl with pain and slacken his grip. The man, seizing his opportunity, threw a punch underneath Valzul's chin and squirmed out of his hold - already out of the Troll's grasp by the time he recovered.

Valzul whirled, looking ready to take off in pursuit of the smuggler, but stopped just before going through the bushes. He looked towards her, and it was obvious that there was some sort of mental struggle going on in his mind.

"Dere be two more dan him out dere," Valzul said finally. "An' dey will know where we be soon enough. We need to leave."

He moved towards her and she drew the knife that the smuggler had dropped during the fight. Valzul froze, watching her keenly, until she turned the dagger around and offered him the handle.

Valzul nodded, accepting it, and then knelt over her wounded leg. He carefully peeled back the bandage and she grimaced at the stinging sensation it caused. Azshana watched as he briefly inspected it, and, evidently finding it to his liking, drew a handful of what appeared to be crushed herbs from a pouch on his side. With great care he set them onto the gash, and then replaced the bandage.

"For healin'," he said roughly.

Azshana nodded. "Thank you."

OOO

_You be a fool, mon._

Valzul was once again carrying Azshana, moving her, uncomfortable with the knowledge that the smuggler now knew where they were resting. While it was unlikely that the man would return, he was not going to take that chance, and was instead taking her north - hoping that, if nothing else, the information the smuggler provided was accurate.

Valzul pushed his way through the brush, not looking at the elf he was carrying, his eyes focused forward. He did not dare look at her.

He had almost let her die on a whim, and back with the ogre. Indeed, he had planning on killing her even before then by betraying her during their escape.

Valzul knew that Azshana saw him almost turn away during the the ogre's attack, and she had to have known that he was wanting her dead. It was clear to anyone with half a brain.

But then, only minutes ago, she had prevented a smuggler from surprising him with a dagger to the jugular - a wound that not even a Troll could recover from. There was no doubt in his mind. If she had not seen the man's hidden weapon, and had directed him to it, he would have been taken entirely off guard and probably would have been killed.

In simpler terms, she had saved his life, despite knowing that he had come close to killing her - though a bit indirectly.

And that was the reason why he could not longer look at her without feeling a wave of shame.

_Dere be more to dis dan what you might tink. _Valzul's rational, paranoid side was taking over. _Sure, she saved your life, but she was savin' her life as much as yours._

He frowned, thinking that that was indeed a valid point. If the smuggler had killed him, she would have been next. Even if she had somehow overpowered the man, she would not have survived long in Feralas by herself with a wounded leg.

Deciding he would go with this more reasonable explanation, Valzul began carefully making his way down a rather steep hill, balancing himself so they he would not slip. He was becoming strongly aware of Azshana's eyes on him, never straying, and he resolutely ignored her, instead keeping his attention on navigating down the slope.

What did she want?

When Valzul realized she was still watching him when he reached the bottom, he felt a tinge of awkwardness. He was beginning to wish she would stop whatever it was that she was doing.

"What is it?" Valzul asked finally, turning towards her.

"Nothing," Azshana said.

Valzul did not reply, returning his attention forward. He did notice, however, that she was no longer looking at him. His shoulders relaxed.

"It's getting late," she said suddenly.

Valzul stared up at the sky, managing to peer through the canopies of the trees and see that the sun was indeed sinking below the horizon. The forest was already beginning to darken and it would not be long before the light vanished completely. He decided that they would stop the moment he found a decent area to spend the night.

The jungle provided few such areas. Normally, he would find a tree to sleep in, to at least off the ground, but with Azshana's leg wounded he doubted that he would be able to safely take her into one. Instead he was hoping to find some place that was out of sight and preferably sheltered by many overhanging branches. They could not afford to be choosy.

Azshana spoke again. "Where will we go once we reach the road?"

Valzul frowned, having not considered her question before. He certainly could not go back to a Horde town with a Night-Elf, and it would be suicide for him to try to take her to the Alliance. He would have to wait for her leg to heal before he could leave.

The problem was that he was unsure of how long that would be. While the wound looked like it was coming along well enough last time he checked, it could still be several days before she could walk again. For a Troll such a wound would be gone within two days, but it was different for a Night-Elf, he knew. They healed more slowly - like an Orc.

And while they had been surviving on the bare sustenance that the jungle provided, they could not depend on that for long. Most of what was available was poisonous.

"I don' know," said Valzul at last. "You need to walk again, den we can go back."

Azshana nodded, seeming to understand.

On his right, Valzul suddenly spied a bare spot near a tree, almost completely surrounded by bushes. The tree's low boughs hung over the area, providing a suitable amount of cover, and after considering the rate that the sun was dropping, Valzul decided that the spot would have to do.

He set her down just outside and quickly inspected the area for any creatures or plants that might be nasty to come in contact with. After finding it to be relatively clean, he gathered some needles and ferns and spread them over the ground, giving them - if nothing else - a cushioned sleeping area. Next Valzul picked Azshana back up and brought her under the tree, placing her right by its base. He sat nearby, crossing his legs and looking out from where they came.

"You should sleep now," he said without looking at her.

"I'm not tired," Azshana replied, moving awkwardly into an upright position, her back against the trunk of the tree.

Valzul really wished she would just go to sleep. The entire situation he was in was becoming to bother him in a way he was not entirely comfortable with, and he was not in the mood for a discussion with her. Not now.

He glanced towards her, and saw that she had not moved. Her expression was troubled, as though she were burning to ask a question but thought asking it was imprudent.

"Wat is it?"

Azshana looked towards him, hesitating. After a pause she asked, "Were you really planning to eat that smuggler?"

Valzul laughed - genuinely - surprised that she thought he was serious. He remembered the brief exchange they had when she originally saw him carrying the man.

_"What- Who is-" She was stammering._

_"Dinner," Valzul replied, half to intimidate the smuggler, half because he was simply in a good mood._

And she had truly believed that he-

He released another bout of laughter.

Azshana, watching him, began to turn red in the cheeks and glare at him. "I don't see what is funny about cannibalism."

"'Shana," Valzul, stumbling on her name through another laugh. He wiped his eyes and continued. "Darkspear hasn' eaten someone in years. Not since we joined Thrall."

She turned a darker shade of red - this time in embarrassment. "Oh- I- I thought that, well-"

"It be alright," Valzul said, still amused though he did not laugh. "Some Trolls still do."

They fell into an uneasy silence, and Valzul thought back to Troll tribes such as the Vilebranch that still devoured their enemies in wild victory celebrations. While he was not old enough to clearly remember the times when the Darkspear practiced cannibalism, it still disturbed him that such traditions existed. Even before joining the Horde, cannibalism had never been as rampant in Darkspear as it was with other tribes such as the Mossflayer.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Azshana asked after a moment. She spoke slowly, as though carefully choosing her words. "What the Horde does - what Thrall does? Like allying with the Foresaken-" She stopped suddenly, seeing the expression on his face.

Valzul stared at her, his previous good mood vanishing, willing himself not to lash out at her. It was no small feat - he had fought other Trolls for saying less about Thrall than her. The edge not entirely out of his voice, he said "Thrall saved da Darkspear. For dat, he has my loyalty, no matter wat."

"I see," Azshana said quickly, hearing his tone of voice and promptly ending the topic.

Valzul saw her body go tense with apprehension, and he felt his anger leave him as quickly as it had come. He regretted his sudden anger, realizing that she had intended no harm in her words.

"Thrall helped us against our enemies an' gave us a new home," Valzul continued, more gently. "He took us wit him, away from da Sea Witch. No Darkspear can forget dat." He noticed that Azshana was looking at him with a curious expression in her eyes and he asked, "You undastand?"

"Yes, I think I do," Azsahan said quietly.

Valzul watched her for another moment, beginning to wonder about the wisdom of telling such things to her. They were enemies - and one did not have idle conversations with enemies.

"But dat be a Troll matter," he continued. "Not an elf one. Can' be too interestin' to an outsider. An' you? What make da Alliance so good, Azshana?" Valzul intentionally never spoke her name often - finding the pronunciation to be awkward and forced. Foreign.

"Same reason as you," Azshana said, closing her eyes and resting her head against the tree. "We protect one another."

"Where are dey now if dey protect you?" Valzul could not resist asking.

"Like your Thrall, they're not here."

Valzul let out a short laugh. "An' all dat be left is you and-" He stopped suddenly - realizing what he was about to say.

Azshana waited a moment, and then said, "And?"

"Nothin'," he said, glad that she had missed it. He had been about to say "An' all dat be left is you and me," but that would have implied - given the content of their conversation - of some sort of shared loyalties.

Valzul once again wondered whether he should really be speaking with her on almost casual terms. A second thought arose - where was this discussion going?

A silence fell between the both of them. Indeed, he was beginning to think that she had fallen asleep against the tree when she spoke again.

"Feralas isn't a bad place to be," Azshana said, surprising Valzul with an abrupt change of subject. "A bit wet, a little hot some times. But not bad."

He watched her, blinking. How hard had she truly fallen off the cart? The conversation - which he had originally found amusing - was quickly starting to confuse him. Why the weather?

"Nah, not at all," he said, thinking back to his own home in Durotar. It was always dry - too dry. The heat did not bother him as much as the fact that it rarely rained and the ocean provided only a little moisture to the atmosphere inland.

"It look like this for you at home?" Valzul asked without thinking, realizing too late that he was asking a question that could be construed as inappropriate. What business was it of his of what Teldrassil was like?

Azshana did not open her eyes. Indeed, she acted as though the question was not unusual at all. "No, it's much quieter, and there are far fewer ogres and smugglers."

"I can see why you like dis place better."

She smiled. "Yes, the lack of ogres takes the excitement out of life."

Another strange silence fell, and this time Valzul decided that he should get to sleep. When dawn arrived, he would need to be ready for another journey, and he could not expect to keep his strength without sufficient sleep. Finding a good place on the ground, he laid down and rested his head on a bit of fern. He heard Azshana quietly move as she shifted to sleep.

A short while later and Valzul was not asleep, instead staring up at the stars through the canopy of the forest. He had never been a troubled sleeper. Such things came easily to him and it was unusual for him to have difficulty.

Tonight, however, was different. His mind was still on the relatively short conversation he had had with the Night-Elf, trying to determine precisely what about it was bothering him.

It was harmless for the most part. No tribe secrets were reveals. No sensitive information. Nothing he said could have possibly endangered the Horde.

So what was keeping him awake?

Valzul thought back to before the conversation even took place - to where Azshana had saved his life, and had then freely given him the man's dagger.

He frowned, following this line of thought, connecting it with the conversation he had. Perhaps he had spoken more than what was prudent. Perhaps she did not really need to know anything concerning the Darkspear or his loyalty towards the Thrall. Perhaps he should not have even responded to any of her questions at all.

But he did, and this was confusing him. More than that, it was becoming clear that she was starting to _trust_ him. Realistically, that made everything much easier. Valzul did not necessarily want to be _distrusted_, but her growing trust was making him uncomfortable. It was something that would have to be inevitably broken - and the day that it would be necessary was not a day that he would relish.

_Not your problem, mon,_ he said, quieting his inward thoughts. _Don' worry yourself 'bout it. It be her problem, not yours. _

It was not reassuring to think about, but it was all he had. And he needed sleep.

_Tomorrow, mon. Dere always be tomorrow._

Valzul's felt calmed at that realization. Tomorrow, he knew, was there. Tomorrow was something he could count on.

And with those thoughts in mind, he slowly closed his eyes.

OO

Valzul woke the next morning to the faint sound of voices echoing distantly through the forest. He sat up, rigid, listening intently, unsure of whether to trust his hearing.

More voices - followed by a bout of laughter.

Without waking Azshana he got to his feet and strode towards the sound, and it was not long before he realized that the voices were close - very close. He passed a few more trees, and, peering around the last, saw movement in the distance.

He heard them speak again, and this time he heard enough to recognize the language. Orcish. Valzul suddenly realized that he had misjudged the distance they had been from the road when he stopped last night. He had expected another half a day's journey at least. However, from what he could see now, the road was only just ahead. He pressed through the undergrowth to get a better look at the Horde on the road.

It was a small party consisting of three Orcs, a Troll, and - most strangely - a member of the Forsaken. The presence of the Undead chilled him, and he felt a flare of distrust at the sight of it walking alongside the rest of the Horde.

Valzul had moved close to the road, and could not hear them much more easily. "Dere can' be dan a handful of Alliance out here - not after wat we handed to 'em last week."

Valzul stood up in surprise, peering over the bushes to get a better look at the Horde group - more specifically, at the Troll who spoke.

_It be possible, _Valzul thought. _He was out in Taranis not long ago._

His eyes confirmed what he already knew. He left the bushes without hesitation, stepping out onto the road.

"Zeenjen?" Valzul said, wearing a grin.

His brother whirled around, his eyes widening in shock. "Valzul? Wat you be-" He seemed furious and elated all at once. "You should be in da Barrens!" His companions looked around curiously, looking between the two Trolls with interest.

"Well, I had a bit of a problem," replied Valzul. "An' now I be lost an' need to get back to Horde lands."

"You be alone? Out here?"

Valzul suddenly remembered Azshana and that he had left her behind in the forest. He glanced towards the Orcs and the lone Forsaken, wondering if he should have been so hasty. His brother he could trust, but he did not know the Orcs, and the Forsaken were never without three faces. Not even his brother would take kindly to a Night-Elf on his word alone, but Valzul knew that Azshana required professional healing, and he would somehow have to get the healer in the group to take care of the wound.

How would he be able to convince them? Valzul looked once more over the group, his eyes coming to rest on the Undead. His skin was white and drawn, eyes sunk, wearing armor than seemed too worn and used. There were bones jutting from places where the flesh had rotted or peeled away, and exposed tendons shuddered and flexed at all his joints.

Valzul began to dislike the Forsaken more with every passing moment.

"So you be alone or not?" Zeenjen asked again, sounding more than a little irritated.

"No," said Valzul quickly. He was used to dealing with his older brother, and knew that Zeenjen was more concerned with his apparent journey into contested territory more than anything else. "Not quite."

Zeenjen's eyes narrowed. "Wat dat mean?"

Valzul thought back to Azshana, his mind racing with ideas. "Just one other," he said. He paused. "A prisoner."

All three of the Orcs tensed, and the lone Forsaken slowly - almost casually - went for his sword. Zeenjen's gaze never left his brother.

"Where?"

"Let me show you."


	4. The Betrayal

**(A/N: Sorry for the delayed update - ran into a distraction called the Burning Crusade that managed to sap most of my time that I usually devote to writing. Anyway, enjoy the chapter!)**

Azshana's emotions were in a turmoil of fear and shock and fury.

Valzul had _betrayed_ her to the Horde.

There was no other way to interpret what had occurred. She had awoken to find him missing, and, moments later, found herself face-to-face with a small party of Orcs - with _him_ leading them.

Azshana knew that she should have been expecting this. Her mother and all the others warned her that Trolls looked out solely for themselves, and for some reason she had believed that Valzul would not throw her to the Horde. He had saved her life, and she - to a degree - his. Did that mean nothing?

The Orcs carried her back to the main road, and despite Valzul standing right alongside her, he did not look towards her once. Not once. His gaze persistently stayed forward, and this, more than anything, confirmed what her Night-Elf logic was telling her.

_Betrayed._

But not betrayed. Even if Valzul had saved her life, he was first and foremost a member of the Horde. Nothing would change that. He had not betrayed her as much as fulfilled his duty as a Troll. Wouldn't she had done the same, if she was in his position?

As much as Azshana would have liked to think otherwise, she knew in her heart that she would have done just as Valzul had. Allies had to be respected first. Strangers second. Enemies last.

Currently, Azshana was laying on the short grass off to the side of the dirt road, watching as the Horde spoke amongst themselves in rushed voices. While they were speaking in Orcish, she very well knew the topic of conversation.

Much of the talking was being done between Valzul and a Troll that she did not recognize. Several times he pointed back towards her, and the Troll, slowly, began to nod. The Orcs, for their part, seemed to ask only the occasional question, looking rather separated from the two Trolls.

Lastly, there was an Undead - Forsaken, she guessed - who stood apart from the group, not even taking part in the discussion. His eyes were fixed on her appraisingly, as though measuring her worth. His mail armor - becoming rusted with age - looked much used, and Azshana fleetingly wondered if it was the same armor he had used during his original life. While she had seen Undead before, she had never gotten used to looking at one, and she felt a strange chill run through her.

Just when Azshana was about to look away, the Forsaken spoke. The three Orcs turned around, and the unidentified Troll stopped speaking to listen. It was not normal, and she did not believe that the sudden silence from the other members of the group stemmed from respect for the Undead man, but from something like surprise.

He spoke only a few words, and then casually tapped the hilt of his sword with his hand. Even though she did not know precisely what he said, the meaning was clear. _Just kill her._

Valzul retorted in a flurry of words and half-phrases that she could barely distinguish from one another. Again, he pointed towards her, though for the first time he actually, _looked _at her. Some of the sense of betrayal left her. It was clear that, for whatever reason, he was defending her. Keeping her from harm.

The Orcs and remaining Troll each spoke in turn, and it became clear to her that there was some sort of vote occurring. Judging from the Undead's steadily darkening expression, it was obvious that the vote was not going in his favor, and by the end the Troll - which Azshana now took to be the leader - nodded with agreement. He spoke once more, and, after he was finished, Valzul approached her with an odd-looking Orc that was dressed in what appeared to be ritual armor.

The Orc wore a mail headpiece crowned with feathers along with several beaded necklaces and a hauberk with several colored rings and other decorative features worked into the metal. He knelt over her leg, and Valzul went behind her and placed a single hand on her shoulder.

"Don' move," he said quietly. "Dis might hurt."

Before Azshana could ask what was happening, the Orc unwrapped the bandage on her leg and set his hand on the open wound. For a moment she felt sharp, stinging pain from the pressure, followed by a sudden coolness that seemed to numb her entire body. The Orc closed his eyes, and a faint green glow began to emanate from his hands, spreading over her wound and seeming to seep into her skin.

He spoke a few words that Azshana did not completely hear, and - instantly - the numbing sensation vanished. The Orc opened his eyes, a ghost of a smile lighting his features, and then got to his feet. Azshana, who had been expecting the pain to return, looked down at her leg in amazement when it did not. The injury was gone - totally healed - and while she knew that magic was oftentimes used medically, she had no idea that an Orc of all races would be capable of performing it.

"He be his clan's old Shaman," Valzul said. "Lucky that he was here. He be one of da best."

Azshana watched as the Orc walked away. She had heard of such Orcs before, but had never met one.

If it had been only a few days ago, Azshana would have been in a much worse state than she was now. She had been captured by the Horde - her mortal enemies - but she was not afraid. At least not as much as she thought she should be. The sight of the Undead unnerved her, it was true, but there was no cold, petrifying fear like she had felt when she had been initially captured by the smugglers and thrown in a cage with a Troll.

But there was a difference. What precisely it was Azshana could not say, but she knew that there was one.

Presently, remembering Valzul's presence behind her, she asked, "Who are they?" It was a non-question that she knew was pointless to even ask. Azshana kept her eyes forward, not looking at Valzul.

"Dey be Horde," he said after a slight pause. "An' da Troll be my brother."

Azshana closed her eyes, suddenly understanding what had just occurred. Family loyalty would of course run deeper than any assurance - spoken or unspoken. After a moment, she opened them again. "This is it then? Where will I be going?"

There was a certain tenseness in him that seemed to resonate through his voice. "Orgimmar," Valzul said. "Dey want to take you there to ask you questions. It be better than death, no?"

Azshana's eyes flickered towards the Undead, who was now watching them both intensely. "I would've preferred neither. But I suppose I don't have much choice now. Would I be permitted at least to ask you - my captor - a question?" She laced her last statement with bitterness - something that Valzul did not miss.

"Yeah," Valzul said, and he sighed as though he were breathing out the last of the air in him. Azshana suddenly regretted her words. "Go ahead."

Azshana looked towards him and saw that his eyes were downcast, his tusks drooping slightly, and though she was still unfamiliar with his various facial expressions, the one he was wearing was clear.

"Why?" she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

Valzul sighed again - heavily. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "But dis not be somethin' I can fix. We'll be takin' you to Orgimmar and after dat I don' know what will happen. I can' go back now." He quickly got to his feet, not looking at her.

Azshana was about to tell him to wait, but no words came out. She felt betrayed, angry, and disappointed all at once. There had been an unsaid trust between them after the fight with the smuggler. She had felt it. She _knew_ that he must have.

"But- Valzul-" Azshana said.

"Don' say dat," he said, his voice heating up and expression hardening with anger. He seemed to be gathering himself, as though trying to recover from some perceived weakness. "Don' say my name. You be my enemy now, and I be yours. Dere be no names between enemies."

Azshana just stared at him, and Valzul hesitated, as though he was about to speak again. He remained silent, however, and then strode away, rejoining the group of Orcs that were milling around a nearby pack kodo.

She had not believed it. Not until then. The forest must have been some sort of neutral zone for them, where there were no sides or loyalties to prove. And now the forest was gone, and in its wake Azshana felt foolish and gullible. Her mother's words echoed over and over in her head, as though chiding a small child. Azshana had dared to trust a Troll and now was paying for it.

After a moment another Troll approached her - the one Azshana recognized as the leader of the group. There was a long cord of rope in his right hand, and his left hand hung loosely at his side, near his dagger. He looked vaguely like Valzul - though somewhat taller, with a darker shade of skin and tusks that were chipped as though from a blade.

The Troll pointed and motioned for her to stand, and she complied. He went around her, taking her hands and tying them together, and then doing the same to her feet - enough for her to walk comfortably, but not run.

"How far are we?" Azshana asked.

She received nothing but a grunt in return, and it took her a moment to realize that this Troll was unable to speak Common. She wondered how Valzul had been able to learn the language.

"Not far," said a new voice, startling Azshana and causing her to turn towards the speaker. She was surprised to see that it was the Forsaken that she had been watching earlier - and had moved closer when she had not been paying attention. "I don't think it's necessary for you to know specifics, however."

The Troll said something quickly in his language, and the Forsaken replied, sounding rather casual where the Troll was tense.

Another moment and the Forsaken said, "You're not familiar with this territory, are you?" His voice was course and strained, and Azshana had trouble understanding him. He smiled, and it stretched his skin in a way that could not have been comfortable. It was like he was wearing a pale ivory mask instead of flesh over a face of bone.

Azshana did not answer, feeling nervous around the Undead in a way that was quite unlike the way she felt around the rest of the Horde. Something about him was _unnatural_, and while the Orcs, Tauren, and Trolls were living creatures, the Forsaken were aberrations.

"Of course, I nearly forgot to introduce myself," he continued, his voice rasping. "My name is Edward - or Sir Edward, if you wish to be formal." He paused, as though waiting for her to respond.

When it was clear that she was not, he added, "And your name is Azshana, yes?"

Azshana gave Edward a slight nod, feeling another level of betrayal as she realized that Valzul had given them her name. "You're a far way from Lordaeron, Edward."

"And you from Darkshore," he replied smoothly. Edward coughed, clearing his throat. "What reason do you have for being here?"

Azshana moved to sit down again as the Troll finished securing the ties and left, leaving her with the Forsaken. She suspected that this was going to be some sort of preliminary interrogation.

"You don't expect me to answer that, do you?" Azshana answered with an edge.

"Not particularly," Edward said, his lips pulling back into a grin. It was not friendly. "At least not yet."

Outwardly, Azshana's expression remained passive, but her mind raced with a sudden fear. She had no doubt that the Undead might try to use less-than-honorable techniques to coerce her to speak. However, a small corner of her mind hoped that the others - specifically, the Orcs and Trolls - would not permit it.

_And why would they care?_

_Valzul._

_He betrayed you. His priorities are very clear._

"I will ask you once more," Edward said, as though sensing her thoughts. "What are you doing here? What are your orders?"

"I won't answer that," Azshana said, a slight tremble entering her voice.

Edward laughed. It was a short, harsh laugh, like his throat was lined with sandpaper. "You lie to yourself, elfling."

The Forsaken smiled as he slowly drew the sword by his side and held it in the air, as though examining it. It was crusted and stained with dry blood, almost rusting, but its edge held a bright gleam as he raised it. It looked as though it had been through a century of use.

"Do you believe swords can be thirsty?" Edward idly asked, his eyes not on her but on his weapon. Azshana did not take it as a question she was intended to answer.

"I do," he said finally, letting the tip of his sword fall gently onto her shoulder, its edge grazing her neck - barely touching. She felt ice seep into her bowels, knowing he was attempting to intimidate her.

Edward began to watch her, irritated. "That's always been the problem with your race," he continued. "Far too confident and arrogant for your own good. Don't you know when you've been bested? Are you unable to distinguish when it is time to speak and when to remain silent?" He leered at her for another moment, his glowing eyes flashing. "Or perhaps you are too young and foolish to understand such things."

Azshana felt the sword's edge begin to bite into her skin, but she did not move. She matched his gaze, not wavering.

"I had been ignorant once like yourself," Edward said, gaining momentum. "Don't you recognize an old ally when you see it? I had been a human - a Paladin, if my memory is correct. Then I fell and died and now finally it's all clear to me. Who that man I was before I died is no matter. I scarcely know him anymore. What I do know and understand is the nature of the Living - those that breath and eat and have blood pumping through your veins. I understand how very close the Living come to death, and, it seems, you do not. Isn't that ironic? So what do you know? What do _you_ understand?"

Azshana felt the blade start to cut into her skin, blood beginning to drip. "I think I do know that you're perfectly willing to kill me," she said, her voice strained. "But I won't tell you a word."

Edward's face grew hard, and after a moment he released the sword's pressure on her neck and quickly sheathed it. "Right now, you say that. Right now, in the middle of Feralas, and not in a dungeon more suitable for your kind. "Things change - places change - and so do limitations."

Azshana watched him keenly. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that it is in your best interest to simply tell me what you know," he said. "I assure you that I can be much more persuasive than I am now when there are more-" He flashed a glance to the side; towards Valzul. "-_reasonable_ men in charge."

Her face betrayed no change, but inwardly Azshana mulled over Edward's words. Were the Orcs and Trolls restraining him?

"They don't trust you?" Azshana asked, testing her theory. She watched carefully for his reaction.

Edward smiled, pointed teeth peeking out from behind decayed lips. "The relationship between the Forsaken and the Orcs is...complicated. But this is not your concern."

"Then it seems you'll just have to wait," she said with a tinge of ice, regretting the words an instant later. She was better off saying nothing at all.

Edward did not react like she thought he would. There was no hint of anger in his expression at her barb, but instead a swift, rasping laugh. "You act like I hold a personal vendetta against you. No, my only interest here is finding the information I need."

Azshana narrowed her eyes at him. What information was he looking for? She really had no idea. In the end, she decided to remain silent.

Voices in a foreign tongue called out - and quickly Edward responded. Reluctantly, he took a step away from her.

"I will give you a moment to think," he said. "Believe me, things will be much easier if you cooperate. In the future, there will be no choice."

And then Edward left her, leaving her to watch as he strode away towards the Troll calling him. Azshana's eyes did not leave him for a long while as their conversation replayed itself in her mind. She was unsure of how much of what he said was true, and how much he simply fabricated. Azshana did not fear him, but she was not entirely confident of herself, either. She knew she could not afford to be in Horde custody for long, lest they return to some camp and Edward made good on some of his promises.

Azshana fleetingly wished she could talk to Valzul - but that abruptly vanished as she remembered that he was the reason she was in this position in the first place.

Soon they were on the move, the small kodo straining to pull the loaded cart behind it. It was being led by one of the Orcs while the rest of the party walked beside it. She had little trouble keeping up - the Orc had done a perfect job on her leg, and there was none of the lingering soreness that she normally felt after getting healed by a druid. They were also limited by the lumbering pace by the kodo, which seemed far too young and weak to be pulling a heavy load.

Azshana felt rather than saw Edward walking directly behind her, never straying from his position, seemingly intent on ensuring that she had no opportunity to escape. She saw very little of Valzul, who chose to walk on the opposite side of the kodo cart, and she was somewhat glad of that. Every time she saw him she felt the old sense of betrayal rising up in her like bile.

She had to remind herself: there was no betrayal. They were enemies. Troll. Night-Elf. Racial enemies.

Perhaps that was even the same rationalization that Valzul used as well.

They traveled for the rest of the day, stopping briefly for breaks, coming across no one save a lone Orc scout who was running at a breakneck pace into the depths of Feralas. They were starting to enter the rocky section of the jungle, and the trees began to thin in favor to thick, tangling undergrowth and bushes. Vines and roots dug and climbed over the cliff face, and the road was becoming littered with chunks of rock that seemed to have rolled down the granite slope. Their progress slowed considerably as they wined down the road that scarcely went for more than a few minutes in a single direction.

The sun seemed to take pity upon them and remained hidden behind the clouds, allowing them at least a cool day to walk over the uneven terrain. The Orcs, however, did not seem to relax. They watched the overhanging rock and cliffs intensely, and their hands rarely left the handles of their axes. It occurred to Azshana that this territory with all its caves and poor line of sight would be prime for ambushing.

Wouldn't it be terribly ironic for her captors to be - in turn - captured by the Alliance? But Azshana severely doubted that these were the type of Horde to surrender. Trolls, at least, were known for their zealotry, and any Alliance attack would have to kill both Valzul and his brother in order to route the party.

A distant part of her mind added: and they would waste no time in executing their prisoner beforehand.

They ended up camping for the night behind a small row of rock off to the side - out of view of the road, but within throwing distance of it. They bound her to a thick tree, facing the camp, and fed her a bit of food before holding a brief meeting by the rocks. Azshana could barely see their face from her position on the tree, and the setting sun made it so she barely saw more than vague outlines of their expressions. Neither could she hear much of their discussion - not that she could have understood it even if she had been able to.

After what seemed to be much deliberation, two of the Orcs and Valzul were selected by the older Troll and then motioned away. The remaining Orc and Troll found a seat on the rocks, while Edward vanished behind some trees - with the purpose to watch the road, Azshana assumed.

After another moment, Azshana that the two were only acting as sentries while the others slept. Shifting in her binds to get somewhat comfortable, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, clearing her mind of everything that had occurred.

_You don't belong here_, Azshana remembered a voice saying. A long time ago, it seemed. But now the voice came in a thick rasping sound, irritating to the ears.

_I'll find a way out_, she thought to herself, more for reassurance than anything.

And with that she fell asleep.

OOO

Valzul stood there watching Azshana for a full minute before moving. His companions were fast asleep, leaving him to watch the camp. He had intended to wake her so that they could speak in private, but now he was hesitating. He felt guilt despite his logic arguing against it.

He betrayed no one! She was an enemy - it really was as simple as that. If he had _not_ had her captured, it would have been a betrayal against the Thrall and the Horde. How could he let an enemy - especially one that potentially had valuable information - go away unscathed?

She should be thankful that he had argued for her life - even if it required him to falsely claim that he suspected that she knew the locations of Alliance scout meeting points.

Then there was the short conversation they had earlier that day, where he _saw_ the simmering anger in her eyes. What had he realistically expected? Gratitude? No, but certainly not _that_. He supposed that he was hoping she would understand his actions so that he would not have to.

Regardless, none of it would soon matter. They would be back in Orgimmar in a week or so, and then she would be Orc custody, and the brief adventure he had with her would be another part of his past. A memory that Valzul would look back on and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

So why was he here?

Valzul frowned, trying to remember.

"Valzul..." he heard Azshana say, voice laced with suspicion. His body tensed as he wondered how long she had been awake. And his name- didn't he tell her not to use his name anymore?

"You shouldn' be awake," Valzul said, looking back at his still-sleeping companions. Edward - who did not sleep - was likely still by the road, unaware.

Azshana did not reply. Quietly, Valzul moved and knelt near her, ignoring the way she shifted away from him. Cords of rope went almost too tightly around her waist and chest, and he could tell that the Orc that tied her ensured that there was no risk of her escaping. Her wrists and ankles, he noticed, were turning red from the rubbing against the rough binds. He could barely see her face - only her deeply violet hair and long ears outlined in the dim light.

"You don' have much time," said Valzul said in a low voice. "Orgimmar not be far away. One week, maybe."

"What am I supposed to do?" she asked. There was an unfamiliar chill in her voice. "You have me fairly well trapped here."

"Tink of some way to escape," Valzul said.

Think of some way to escape.

_What the hell kind of suggestion is dat?_ It sounded weak even in his ears.

"You could just let me go," Azshana said evenly. She looked up at him - her guarded expression falling away a bit to reveal a peak of hope.

"Don' ask me to do dat," said Valzul. "You know I can't."

Azshana did not speak a word, but her face asking the silent question: _Why?_

"You be askin' me to betray Thrall - dat's somethin I won' do."

"I see how it is," she said suddenly, speaking a little too loud. A furious light entered her eyes and she continued, "You needed me as a prize for your Orc friends? So this is how it has been all along?"

"_What?_" Valzul snapped, struggling to keep his voice low. She thought that just because they escaped from the smugglers together, and forced their way through the forest, that he would owe her some sort of bizarre form of loyalty? Loyalty that overrode Darkspear's bind to Thrall? The entire notion was absurd.

It is true that Valzul would have originally preferred that Azshana had never been taken by the Horde - but he could not take back his mistake now.

_But would not have keeping an enemy of Thrall out of Horde custody be a form of a betrayal? _

He could not answer. Maybe they were, but he did not think so. It was a complicated question that he was unable to come up with a response to.

"It's true then, is it?" Azshana said, taking Valzul out of his reverie. She looked infuriated - much like she was when they fought in the smugglers' cage. If he had been sitting a little closer he had no doubt that she would have lashed out at him.

"Looks to me dat you answered your own question," Valzul said. "An' now you'll never let dis Troll change your mind."

"A Troll," Azshana echoed. "Yes, that's what you are. I almost forgot. You're a liar. I'm starting to regret giving you that knife."

Valzul felt his muscles tighten. She was starting to rile him into doing something rash. "Jus' why do you tink I'm here right now? To hear ya rant?"

She did not answer. Indeed, she seemed to be considering his words.

"I went outta my way to keep dem from killin' you," continued Valzul. "The first thing dey almost did when I brought dem to you was kill you. So I told dem dat you knew some stuff and dat killin' you would be a waste."

"Are you expecting gratitude?" Azshana asked.

"Nah, I jus' expect you to understand."

There was a pause before she asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I don' know," Valzul said. "But I told you, this isn' somethin' dat I can fix. What I am doing isn' personal, it just be how it has to be. Here, you are my enemy, and dat's da way it's gotta be. We aren't with da smugglers, and we aren't in da forest."

Valzul could practically see the thoughts and emotions running through Azshana's mind, despite the mask of neutrality that she used to cover them. Accusations. Anger. Disbelief. All swirling around a sense of confusion over what precisely he was trying to convey.

He had thought previously that in the future he would look back upon this moment and laugh. He had been wrong. There would be no laughing. Something was bothering him deeply, but, reminding himself of his duties to the Horde, he ignored it and continued.

"After dis, I won' be speakin' to you again," Valzul said. "If I see you, I'll ignore you, or kill you, dependin' on what needs to be done. I be tellin' you all dis because I figure dat I at least owe you a fair warning. Do you understand?"

Slowly, Azshana nodded.

Valzul did not waste any time. He had said what needed to be said and now he wanted to leave. He averted his gaze and got to his feet, feeling a small measure of relief at knowing that he had unburdened himself of the Night-Elf.

Somehow, he knew that it would not be that simple.

Valzul heard Azshana speak. Her voice sounded hard and unfamiliar - and he was quite sure that he had never heard her use that tone before. "I should have let you die." There was no anger or malice in the words, but a simple statement of fact.

Valzul paused, unsure of how to take her words. He looked towards her, surprised. He had expected her to say something like that, but that did not necessarily mean that he wanted to hear it. Perhaps she had understood what he had been saying _too_ well.

Enemies from now on.

"Ya need to sleep," Valzul briefly wondered what else to say, before simply saying, "Goodnight."

He walked away without looking back. He had done what he needed to do - that is, sever all ties with her. It seemed to have been effective.

No longer would he feel pulled in different directions - he could now focus purely on fulfilling his tribe's debt to Thrall. No more compromises or half-decisions. Azshana was now simply a moment in his past - a three day mistake that would never be remade.

Valzul decided that he was fortunate that she had accepted his decision without protest. Indeed, it seemed like she had been expecting it.

His concern was whether he would be able to accept his own decision as well as she did.

Valzul had no problem ending contact with anyone - regardless of who they were. He had ended friendships before and had not encountered the mixture of guilt and regret that he was experiencing now. He supposed severing ties with someone who had saved his life - and he theirs - was much more difficult. It was like he held a debt that he never quite could pay off - not entirely unlike Darkspear's debt with Thrall.

Sighing, Valzul wandered towards a scattering of rocks that had broken off the main ridge. He had intended to speak with her in order to clear his mind, but it had not worked out that way. Doubts were entering his mind as to whether he was making the best decision.

He sniffed the air, suddenly bothered by a stench that had wafted under his nostrils. It was like rotten flesh, and Valzul recognized it immediately as a sign that Edward was nearby. He tensed, listening, wondering whether the Forsaken had seen any of his contact with Azshana.

Edward would be another problem, he knew. Valzul despised the Undead - and while he could tolerate them enough to work with them and communicate with them, he avoided them as much as he feasibly could. The Horde had accepted them as allies, but he did not see them as such. It was not an uncommon viewpoint to have - indeed, many Orcs and other Trolls shared a similar opinion, and for that reason it was rare to come in contact with one.

He did not know why Edward was present in his brother's small scouting party, nor did he particularly care. What he did know was that Edward was insisting that they execute Azshana before she could become a problem for them.

For now, Edward's desire was being denied, mostly because the Orcs believed that the best route to take was the route opposite of the one a Forsaken was taking.

Valzul stood up again and began to patrol the small camp, stretching his legs, trying to enjoy the cool night air. The entire situation with Azshana was moving farther away from a resolution rather than closer.

An hour passed before he could come to a decision. He would doubt himself no longer. He would stick with what he said to Azshana, and he would be her enemy. He would fight, capture and, if necessary, kill her. The middle ground that he was searching for did not exist. He had to take one side or the other - and to that question the only answer was "Thrall."


	5. Zeenjen's Decision

**(A/N: Regarding concerns about Edward - it should be noted that (as will be shown throughout this story) he is not necessarily representative of the Forsaken as a whole. In fact, I plan on fleshing him out a bit more in this chapter and in later chapters. As for representing the other Horde races - I don't foresee bringing any Blood Elves into this story, but there will be a Tauren character introduced very soon.**

**As I'm sure you all are noticing, this story is moving very slowly - and intentionally so. This chapter brings us to about 1/4-1/3 of the total story, so as you can tell, this is going to be quite lengthy. Again, I appreciate the reviews and have attempted to apply several of the changes that have been requested - namely in my style, which sometimes can be incoherent or lack detail. Hopefully you'll see this chapter as an improvement over the earlier ones.**

**Without further ado, enjoy the chapter.)**

Edward never liked mornings. He supposed he never liked them in his past life, either. It was not because of the presence of the sun, nor the discomfort he experienced from the cold dampness left on the ground and leaves from an earlier mist.. It was never because he was tired - in fact, he never needed sleep.

What bothered him were the dreams. Edward always hesitated to call them dreams since the word implied the occurrence of sleep - something that was reserved exclusively to the living. Some nights, for short periods, he would merely close his eyes and rest, more out of habit than anything else. An old impulse that he could not shake. During these short sessions, he would see flashes of old images and pictures - all unrecognizable and foreign.

Many of these visions featured a young, blond man out on the countryside or in a Human barracks, wearing a sword similar to the one Edward was carrying now. He had no doubt that he was seeing into his past life, and while he held no real interest in seeing it, sometimes he would dream of something pivotal that occurred.

Edward was not like most Forsaken. Many retained most of their memories and experiences, despite their Undeath. The Forsaken that initially resurrected Edward suspected that it was due to the manner of his death. Judging from the deep wound on the back of his skull, it seemed likely that Edward suffered a blow to the head before his death, and this in turn affected his memory in Undeath.

At least, that was what had been theorized. Edward did not particularly care either way. Indeed, he would much rather be rid of his past life entirely. The dreams stirred at something in the recesses of his mind, making him uncomfortable, as though a part of him was protesting that he had never actually died. He found that the little information he did manage to glean from these brief visions to be disturbing - especially his dabbling into the Light.

Edward supposed that at some point he was to be a Paladin, but he knew enough about the Forsaken to know that Paladins were immune to the plague that brought about the Undeath. His last moments of life, however, remained hidden to him, and there was nothing to hint how he originally died. Edward oftentimes imagined it to have been a violent end, though he knew nothing to suggest it. Presently, Edward was sitting on a cleft of rock, staring down the empty road, reflecting on last night's dream. It had been short vision - him dressed in simple militia armor, blond hair tied back, presenting a scroll to who appeared to be his instructor. His instructor had been an older man with graying hair, sitting behind an almost regal desk, the suit of armor behind him betraying the fact that the man was a member of the Order.

The instructor sighed, and spoke a few, indistinguishable words before setting the scroll down. Disappointment was evident in the younger man's eyes. Denial of some sort - Edward could not tell precisely what.

Another moment passed and the instructor handed the youth a book, pointing at it and then saying - the words now clearly echoing in Edward's memory - to "study and understand the Light, and maybe the Light will then adopt you."

The words made the Undead Edward laugh - but in his past life the words struck him deep. The younger man nodded solemnly, accepting the book and striding away, trying to maintain some sense of dignity. The dream ended there, leaving Edward to interpret what had actually occurred.

And this, more often than not, was how he spent his mornings. Interpreting what occurred. It was an uncomfortable routine that he could not help but consistently go through. Reflecting on his past made him feel all too tired and weak - though he could never understand why.

So, when the Trolls and Orcs in the camp woke up early to start the day's journey, Edward was grateful for the distraction. The work occupied his mind, allowing him to shelf the night's dream and to get on with the next day.

Edward paid particular attention to Valzul - who looked strangely tired and weary given that he had most of a night's rest. Being a Forsaken gave him a strange sense of perception those around him, and he had started to monitor the Troll's actions yesterday evening. Something was incorrect with him - something was amiss.

Valzul's explanation of how he came across the Night-Elf was easy enough to believe, as well as his claim that the elf held valuable information that should be preserved. However, nothing the elf said during the brief interrogation led Edward to believe that she knew anything particularly valuable. Indeed, she seemed to be more of an amateur - not someone who the Alliance would trust with sensitive information.

Edward was used to being lied to. He had long ago accepted the fact that he would not be trusted by anyone outside of the Forsaken. He wondered if there was an ulterior plan at work, not known by him, but set up by Zeenjen to preserve secrecy. That would have been the truth Edward believed in had it not been for Zeenjen's apparent acceptance of everything Valzul said. It was becoming more and more clear to him that Valzul possessed a hidden motive - and he was becoming intensely interested in what precisely that motive was.

"Edwed mon, grab da elf and get her ready," Zeenjen said to him, passing by with a large sack of materials to pile on to the kodo cart.

Edward involuntarily shuddered. He hated the Troll's pronunciation of his name - and he was quite sure they spoke it that way intentionally to irritate him. It would not be surprising. They were part of the living, and he was part of the dead. Had it not been for mutual enemies, they would not have been allies at all.

Edward did not reply, instead going directly to the Night-Elf who remained tied to a tree, intently watching the activity around her. He wondered for a moment what had made this elf so important. Certainly there were better war trophies. Perhaps there was some other factor at work that he did not yet see - something that would give value to this seemingly insignificant elf. What made her worth preserving? Once again, he thought about Valzul's true motives.

The elf watched him as he knelt by her and began loosening her binds. Edward felt her shudder at the touch of his bony fingers - as was so common with the living. He heard her hiss and mutter in her foreign Darnassian tongue. He did not recognize it nor did pay her words any particular attention. He did not care what she said.

"Get up, little elf," Edward said when he released the last of the ties. "You have a long day. You think much on what I told you? Have you decided to talk, or do you insist on making things needlessly difficult on yourself?"

Azshana turned towards him with a new look in her eyes - something not immediately identifiable. He regarded it with quick suspicion. Something had changed - or broke - with her.

"What would you like to know?" she said quietly, her eyes averted.

Edward had to stifle a look of surprise - it might have caused something vital to stretch and tear. Did he hear her offer correctly? He had not expected her answer.

"Everything about the Alliance," Edward said carefully. He bordered on calling for Zeenjen or one of the Orcs, but decided against it. Their presence might complicate things. Besides, if he alone knew the information it might give the Forsaken some leverage in their relations with the rest of the Horde.

"I can tell you about the Sentinels in Ashenvale," she said. Her voice was low, as though ashamed, but Edward did not entirely believe it. It was a simple thing to lie.

"You're a long way from Ashenvale," said Edward. "How would you know anything about it?"

"I just arrived from there."

Edward was receiving mixed signals. His logic told him she was lying, but his intuition suggested that she might indeed be speaking the truth. He decided to test further.

"Go on."

"The Sentinels are leaving," she continued. "They are being reassigned to places like Felwood or Darkshore - away from Ashenvale."

"You're lying," he said. "The Horde is not ignorant of that region. Surely the departure of any significant amount of Sentinels would have been noticed."

"They've been filling veteran Sentinel positions with inexperienced Kaldorei for the short term," she continued. "They have not been overt about it. I can provide details if you desire."

Questions flooded Edward's mind, and he tried hard to hide his excitement. If her words were true - and he was becoming more confident that they were - then he had stumbled across a prisoner who possessed incredibly valuable information...to the Orcs.

What would be his course of action? Edward was a long way from the Undercity, and his only order before he left was to take actions that would first and foremost promote Forsaken interests.

The problem was that Forsaken interests did not necessarily match the interests of the rest of the Horde. The Forsaken were heavily dependent on the aid of the Horde - it was true - but the reality was that their alliance was so tenuous that his superiors had no doubt that their relations would crumble the moment the Forsaken become unnecessary to fulfill Horde goals. Right now, the Orcs had more enemies than friends, and that fact alone was what held their alliance with the Forsaken together.

The information this elf provided - and whatever else she knew but not yet divulged - could easily give the Orcs a huge advantage over the Night-Elves if outright war were to ever erupt. Azshana was a critical frontier possession for the elves, and long have the Orcs sought to take it from them. If the Orcs were to take it and earn concessions from the elves, it would at the very least weaken Forsaken relations with the Orcs, and at the very worst render the Forsaken worthless.

This was something he knew his superiors would not want to risk.

This elf's information could not be allowed reach Thrall.

Edward could in no way risk Forsaken relations with the Horde - even if it was an indirect risk. Encountering situations like this was the reason he had been sent to Kalimdor. He would have to kill the elf - either quietly or with Zeenjen's permission, it did not matter. However, Edward could not simply kill her now and finish it, as it would risk his position as an ambassador to the Orcs. He would have to complete his task with some measure of finesse.

"Ya almost done mon?" Zeenjen called out from by the kodo.

"Yes," Edward said in a soft rasp. To Azshana, he added, more quietly, "Now tell me everything else."

OOO

When his brother, Zeenjen, told him that they had decided to stop at Camp Mojache to restock their supplies, Valzul was pleased. He was grateful for the distraction that the Horde outpost would provide, and perhaps it would finally give him an opportunity to freely clear his mind. More than that, he needed a rest. Despite the day having just started, Valzul was tired from a sleepless night, and did not look forward to a full day of marching.

His resolve was not as strong as he wished it would be. There was a lingering question as to whether what he had done was morally sound. Valzul was certain that he had taken the _correct_ action, but not necessarily the _right_ one. It was this conflict that had kept him awake during the night - which was no small feat since he once considered himself to be a Troll that was not easily disturbed by such things.

It suddenly occurred to him that he was being irresistibly changed. To him, the cause was vague and uncertain. The smugglers and their cage had shook something loose, perhaps. It was an observation that Valzul could not quite explain, and he felt sure that it would be occupying a large part of his mind for the remainder of the day.

Other than his own personal doubts, it seemed that Azshana was going along with his plan easily. A little too easily, in his opinion. The decision to break them into raw enemies was something that did not come easy to Valzul, but he knew it was necessary. It seemed as though she were able to adapt into them being enemies much faster than he was.

Valzul could not understand why this disturbed him.

It seemed like he was understanding very little recently.

Turning his attention away from those thoughts, he suddenly noticed that Edward was still walking beside Zeenjen. Valzul frowned, suspicious of the Forsaken's motives, knowing that he was probably up to nothing good. Edward normally favored walking along on the opposite side of the cart, away from the living. To see him walking along with his brother, speaking in a lowered voice, was unusual indeed.

Valzul decided that he would have to talk with Zeenjen the next time they stopped. His brother would surely tell him whatever Edward had shared, and then perhaps he would have some insight on what the Undead was planning.

And Valzul was certain that Edward was planning something. The Forsaken never frivolously exchanged words. If they spoke, it was for a reason.

He would not have the chance to speak with his brother for several hours. The afternoon heat was coming out in full force, and that - combined with a growing incline on the path - slowed their progress considerably. The decline of trees and shade did not help their condition much, either.

Valzul thought it strange how dry his throat could feel with such humidity. While they were well out of the moist, sweltering depths of the jungle, the air was still felt fairly thick with vapor, and one could feel the dampness underneath logs and in the earth.

He was glad for the pouch he brought with him, and with some disappointment noticed that it was nearly empty. The Orcs - knowing what the next day would bring - had prepared by bringing several pouches of water, though Valzul was not about to ask them for one. He was not exceptionally thirsty, and planned on simply refilling his own pouch the next time they stopped for rest.

Tossing the pouch in the kodo cart, Valzul suddenly wondered whether Azshana had had the opportunity to drink.

_Nah, don' matter mon,_ he said quickly to himself. _She be da enemy, 'member?_

Yes, he remembered. He had no reason to concern himself with a Night-Elf.

_But den again, ya have to bring her to Orgimmar. She isn' gonna make it to Orgimmar if she be passed out on da road._

That's true.

With some hesitation and mixed thoughts, he took a free pouch and went around the back of the cart, trying to appear indifferent but not quite succeeding. He walked up to Azshana, ignoring the stare that Edward gave him.

"It be a hot day," said Valzul. His voice was almost forcefully neutral. "Take dis, you don' wan' to be without some water."

Azshana glanced only once at him - something like surprise on her expression - and then took the water pouch, putting it to her lips and drinking it down. Valzul did not want to spend any unnecessary time near her - indeed, this was becoming more difficult than he originally thought.

"Ah, yes," Edward said, watching them keenly. "I nearly forgot about the necessities of water. You understand, I'm sure."

Valzul said nothing, nodding once towards Edward and then going back around the cart. When he returned, one of the nearby Orcs looked at him quizzically.

"Da prisoner needed water," Valzul said in explanation.

The Orc grunted, then turned away, uninterested.

Valzul let out a silent breath, glad that his outer image had not cracked.

From what Valzul could see, Edward resumed his conversation with Zeenjen, flashing only a quick glance towards him to hint the topic of their discussion. Azshana was a few steps behind the Forsaken, seeming somewhat refreshed despite her binds keeping her from walking properly.

It was not until late afternoon that they stopped to rest. The party took shelter under an unusually large tree, taking advantage of its size to stay out of the oppressive heat. The only person who seemed unaffected by the temperature was Edward - who obviously knew nothing of what the rest of the group was experiencing due to his Undeath. Indeed, he stood casually in the full sun, staring vaguely into the distance as though deep in thought.

Suddenly, Edward moved, his head turning until his eyes met with Valzul's. The Troll simply stared back, bristling, somehow feeling threatened by the gaze the Forsaken was sending his way.

There was a story the old crones in his village used to tell about a Troll that used to hex others with his eyes. It was old voodoo, they said. Old voodoo from old times. He could turn grown Trolls into frogs - with no incantation, no ritual, and no preparation. For many years he was feared, until at last he inadvertently stared into his reflection in the water, trapping himself in his own gaze. They called him Sanvan, and the warning said that one should never stare at another for too long, lest they accidentally summon his furious spirit.

Valzul knew the tale for the fiction that it was. However, now that he locked eyes with Edward, he began to think back to the story and wonder if it was indeed possible to summon that old spirit. There was no sign of pleasantness in Edward's eyes, and Valzul felt that if anyone could bring about a second coming of Sanvan, it would be the eyes of that Forsaken.

Finally, Edward broke contact and strode away, towards where Zeenjen sat under the tree. He spoke something into the Troll's ear, and after a moment Zeenjen motioned over the Orc Shaman. Edward said something, and while Valzul could not hear the words, he saw the Forsaken's fingers run over the edge of his blade and was struck with a sense of apprehension.

They spoke for a short while before the Orc nodded, seeming more indifferent than anything. Zeenjen spoke again. Valzul strained his ears. He only made out one phrase: "-only at Camp Mojache-".

At this, it was evidently decided that it was time to move on, as Zeenjen got to his feet nodded towards the cart. Edward gave a slight bow - seeming exceptionally pleased - and turned away.

Something about this turn of events troubled Valzul - and he knew that there was significance in the fact that he had not been a part of whatever had been decided. His brother's loyalty was closer to the Horde than to his family, but Valzul was still surprised that Zeenjen had not approached him.

He stood with the intention of intercepting his brother before they finished loading the cart. However, it was unnecessary as Zeenjen was already heading towards him, a certain hesitance in his stride that Valzul found unusual.

"Hey, mon," said Zeenjen, seeming to have difficulty in finding a way to start the conversation. He looked over Valzul as though not seeing him before.

Valzul greeted him in turn. "What be da plans once we get to Mojache?"

"Mmmm," he said, seeming to consider the question. "Jus' goin' dere to resupply, den head out again. You know dat."

"I sort o' heard ya mention somethin' to Edwed about it," said Valzul. "Dat's why I be askin'. Figured it be important, if he be talkin' to you about it."

"Yea, well we might be takin' care of somethin' while we're dere," Zeenjen said. "In fact, we might not be headin' back to Orgimmar at all."

That was unexpected. "Wat?" Valzul asked, surprised. "Where will we be goin' after Mojache den?"

"Back through Feralas," said Zeenjen casually. "It seems dat elf you found told Edward all she knew. Some nonsense about resources in Desolace - nothin' we care much about. No point of keepin' her around."

Valzul clenched and unclenched his teeth impulsively. This was not how it was supposed to happen. "So you plan on killin' her in Mojache den?"

"Dat's da plan. Grab supplies, sleep, and den finish off da elf in da mornin'."

"Why not take her back to Orgimmar?" Valzul could not believe what had occurred. The damned Forsaken had somehow convinced his brother to execute Azshana - this was not how it was supposed to happen!

"What for?" Zeenjen said. "She's not worth anythin' anymore. She told us what she knew, so now dere's no point in headin' back all da way to Orgimmar."

"What if she knows more?" Valzul asked. His mind raced with ways of how he could extricate Azshana out of the situation she was in.

This was not how it was supposed to happen.

"She just be a scout in Feralas," Zeenjen said. "How much could she know?" A questioning expression entered his eyes. "Why? You want her alive?"

"You be da one dat make dat decision," Valzul said, avoiding the question. "But what if Edwed be wrong? He's one of da Undead."

"I don' trust da Undead with my life," said Zeenjen. "But I trust dem to get information from a prisoner, ya know? What be on your mind, Valzul?"

"I just don' tink we need to kill her. Mebbe we can just leave her in Camp Mojache. No point in throwin' something away."

Zeenjen let out a snort of laughter. "Yea, and I'm sure da Tauren will be pleased dat we drop one of our burdens onto dem. Besides, sometimes I tink dat that Tauren go too easy on elves. She'd be better off dead, ya can't argue against dat, mon."

Valzul realized that he was reaching a point where further argument would be pointless. His brother had evidently made up his mind, and there was little chance in changing that. However, he was not quite ready to give up. If nothing else, he owed Azshana at least that.

"Lemme ask you a favor, Zeen," Valzul asked.

A certain curious light entered his brothers eyes. "Yeah, sure."

"Don' kill her."

"Ya keep askin' dat question," Zeenjen said, beginning to sound irritated. "But I keep tellin' ya da same thing."

"Dat elf spared my life," said Valzul. A sudden stillness permeated the air as his words began to register in Zeenjen's mind.

He shook his head. "What?"

"You heard me, mon," Valzul said. This was going to be his only chance. He knew that for certain. He _needed_ his brother to understand.

"You never said dat before," Zeenjen said. His notched tusks quivered, and he seemed ready to either explode or break into pieces. "You sayin' you were lyin' before?"

"Nah, not lyin'," said Valzul quickly. "But I left it out since it wasn' much important to what we were doin'. You see why I don' tink we should kill her?"

Zeenjen narrowed his eyes and said, "Ya, actually I tink I do." His words were laced with suspicion, and it was evident that he meant something entirely different from what Valzul was trying to convey.

"No, you have it wrong," said Valzul. "But I owe her a debt - like we owe a debt to Thrall-"

"Dat's not da same," Zeenjen said, his raised voice making it very clear that he would tolerate no more argument. "Don' try to say it's da same. You don' owe her anything, and neither do I. If you tink dat you owe her somethin', that'll be solved when we reach Mojache. Ya can't really be in debt ta someone dat's dead, eh? Is dere goin' to be a problem with dat?"

Valzul matched his brother's steady gaze, realizing that he had failed. It was over. It had been decided. Indeed, Zeenjen seemed more resolved than ever to kill Azshana now that he knew about his brother's debt.

This was not how it was supposed to happen.

"Nah, dere won't be a problem," said Valzul, his voice even. Finished. She was dead.

"Good," Zeenjen said. He watched Valzul for a moment more, and then turned and left. It was short and crisp - impersonal. While Valzul never had the chance for a close relationship with his brother, he knew what little they had was now strained.

The Orcs were nearly ready to leave, and Edward was already standing by the cart. It was clear on his face that he had some idea of what had transpired between Zeenjen and Valzul. Azshana stood nearby, completely unaware that her fate had been decided in the short span of a few minutes.

Valzul was having difficulty accepting what had occurred. He had _intended_ to get her to Orgimmar where she could leave his life and never return. Ignorance was something he was comfortable with. Indeed, it was something that was necessary more often than not to retain sanity. He was not supposed to know that she would be executed - much less be present when it occurred.

He wondered furiously what possessed her to tell Edward whatever information she knew. Didn't she think through to the consequences?

None of it mattered now. Soon they would be in Camp Mojache, where she would be taken to a holding cell for the evening while Zeenjen and the rest of the Horde party refreshed their stocks of food and materials. In the morning, Zeenjen would likely drag her from her cage to the middle of the camp, place her on a rock, and chop off her head. Clean, simple. Old tradition dictated that her corpse be eaten, but Valzul knew that that would never happen. Cannibalism was something Darkspear had shed itself of when joining the Horde.

Valzul spared a glance towards Azshana, and - for the first time that day - she met his glance. She looked at him questioningly, as though sensing that he was troubled.

He looked away after a moment, not voicing anything, not expressing anything. She would know soon enough, and would think - as he surely would if in her position - that he had organized the execution himself.

Valzul thought back to the smugglers and wondered whether if his brother - when placed in an identical position - would make the same decisions that he had. Valzul thought not. Zeenjen's view of the world was more polarized, where enemies were obvious. He was quick to decide something and slow to change his mind. Speed over accuracy. Zeenjen would have died soon after escaping.

Evening approached, and Valzul was starting to recover. Azshana's fate was out of his hands - if it was ever in his hands. He gave her the best chance that he could. Zeenjen's decision was final - irrevocable. He would at least try to ensure that she was buried in a decent spot, and not thrown in with the animal carcasses.

Valzul recalled his brother's words. She would be dead in the morning.

This was not how it was supposed to happen.

Where had he gone wrong?

What should he had done?

His answer was that there was nothing else he could have done, but that provided little comfort. He knew what could provide him with some comfort, thought - and could not wait to reach Mojache to drown himself in it. The Orcs would surely help him on his way.

Drink, drink, and drink some more. At least that way he'd be sure to sleep all through the morning.

**(A/N: And to the inevitable question: Was Azshana lying to Edward or telling the truth? You'll see.)**


	6. Guilt and Regret

Deephoof was not one to feel inclined to involve himself with the matters of others. Indeed, under normal circumstances he pointedly avoided it. When he was younger, he had been quite different, but age has an unusual effect on Tauren, and after several years he decided to retire from his position within the Cenarion Circle and live out his life in Feralas. As a druid he enjoyed the relatively quiet, undisturbed forests, and Deephoof was all too glad to have the opportunity to rest without the burden of responsibility weighing down his shoulders.

He was much too old to handle the concerns of the Circle. Those duties he would have to leave for the young. Many druids his age were acting as advisors - not running around attempting to hold negotiations between the Goblins and the Orcs and the Elves. Or trying to keep the Centaurs from tearing apart Cenarion encampments on the outskirts of civilization. Or handling the business that's occurring in Silithus - whatever that's about.

Deephoof did no resent the Cenarion Circle - indeed, as a druid, he was in the best position to recognize its necessity. He invested his life into the organization and did not regret it. However, he was becoming increasingly aware that his time was beginning to pass. So, in somewhat of a contrast with what was considered normal for druids, he retreated from worldly affairs.

It was only by chance that he was in Camp Mojache when a small mixed group of Orcs and Trolls entered the encampment. Indeed, it was rare for Deephoof to leave his home to the south, and he only ever did so when he was in need of supplies. In this particular case, he intended to purchase seeds for the purpose of expanding a garden - something that he had been meaning to do for a long time.

However, it was not the mere fact that a Horde patrol had entered the camp that caught his attention. It was a presence of a Night Elf - seemingly a prisoner - being led by a member of the Forsaken. Now _that_ was unusual.

Deephoof found it to be passingly interesting. The next moment, though, he abandoned those thoughts. He disliked becoming involved. The affairs between the Horde and Alliance were certainly not his concern - and were dangerous to meddle in regardless of whether he was in the Cenarion Circle or not.

Choosing the path of neutrality, Deephoof moved on and entered the tent that was marked to sell various goods and wares. Inside, surrounded by sacks of spilled grain and overstuffed boxes was a Tauren separating what appeared to be a shipment of wares while an Orc worked in the background. It was not unusual. While Camp Mojache used to be a dominantly Tauren outpost, a steady stream of Orcs were slowly coming in, replacing their Tauren counterparts. While the Tauren still held the majority, Deephoof did not consider it unusual to see a few Orcs working in the camp.

Unfortunately, the Tauren told Deephoof that they did not currently have any seed in stock, but that a new shipment would be coming within the next day. He was not annoyed - due to the time, Deephoof was already planning on staying in Camp Mojache through the night, and the slight delay would not cause any significant disturbance in his plans. Indeed, his schedule was rather flexible these days.

Deephoof thanked the Tauren and left, deciding that he would take the time as an opportunity to wander through the camp - something he had not done in several months.

The Horde patrol that he had seen earlier was already unpacking their kodo. Deephoof watched as one of the Trolls spoke briefly with a Tauren that he recognized as the captain of Camp Mojache, and then motioned for the lone Forsaken in the group to bring forward the Night Elf. She stood there for a moment, looking haggard and worn-out, before she was escorted by a guard to the camp's holding pen.

Deephoof felt a tinge of pity. He knew what was likely going to happen to her. No one - not even Tauren - looked kindly upon trespassers, and if she had threatened Horde security in Feralas...well, mercy was something that was not normally put to practice.

He felt none of the racial hatred towards the Elves that he knew other Horde members possessed. Deephoof had worked too long with the Night Elves in Moonglade to hold any sort of factional grudge or disgust. He sometimes liked to think that druids were above such bias.

But Deephoof knew that - even in Moonglade - he was more of an exception rather than a rule. The controversy within the Circle over the acceptance of Tauren had never completely died away, and there were situations where druids of different races simply would not work together. This was something that had frustrated him the moment he had joined the Cenarion Circle - and even in his old age the feeling of irritation towards the petty rivalries had not faded entirely.

His own experience showed that even now Night Elves and Tauren could foster friendships - and in some cases more.

But those experiences mattered very little now.

As Deephoof watched the elf be escorted away, he suddenly noticed that he was not alone in his interest. Across the camp, by the kodo, a Troll was watching her - or at least staring in her general direction. The Troll's gaze lingered a bit longer before returning to the work at hand, only now and again glancing back to as though trying to see where she was going. The Orcs alongside him showed no change, their eyes scarcely leaving the kodo that they were attending to.

Deephoof frowned, slightly confused at the Troll's interest in the prisoner, before deciding to ignore it. He oftentimes considered himself to be perceptive, but now he thought that he was looking too deeply into certain things. He had a tendency towards doing that.

Presently, the Tauren captain concluded his conversation with the Troll, and then turned to send a wave of greeting towards Deephoof.

Deephoof - feeling a sudden surge of regret at coming this way - reluctantly waved back, then sighed as the captain started to approach.

If he was too old to handle his Cenarion Circle duties, he was too old to handle Captain Farwind. While he held no personal dislike towards the captain, he found him to be excessively blunt and tactless at times.

"Hail, Deephoof," said Farwind, wearing an all-too-wide smile. He was speaking in Orcish - common language. "What are you doing here?"

"It is good to see you too, Farwind," Deephoof replied, ignoring the question. He readied himself for what was sure to be a long, empty conversation that would benefit no one. "Have things been well in Mojache?"

"Of course," he said. After a short pause, he repeated, "What are you doing here?"

Deephoof never enjoyed Farwind's brief interrogations that never failed to occur the moment he stepped foot into the camp. He suspected that the captain believed him to be some sort of spy or informant for the Cenarion Circle. Only Farwind would be capable of dreaming up such nonsense.

"Picking up supplies," Deephoof said with intentional vagueness. "I will only be here for a day or two."

"Ah," Farwind said. "Have you seen anything unusual about?"

"As always, I have not," said Deephoof. Patent answer for a patent question. "Why do you ask?"

"It seems that we have picked up an Alliance spy during one of the patrols."

"Have you now?" Deephoof was now actually becoming interested. He was curious about the Night Elf and the details surrounding the capture. "That's excellent news for the Horde. And, I should say, most unusual. The previous captain never caught any spies." Inflating the captain's ego was one of the best ways to get information.

"Yes, well, I've always known the Alliance have been lurking out there," Farwind said breezily, gesturing vaguely towards the forest. "All it took was some luck and a bit of intuition."

_Most definitely,_ Deephoof thought dryly. "What do you plan on doing with her?"

"Executing her at daybreak," he said casually. "Nothing special. All the Orcs seem to enjoy that, anyway, so it will be good for morale. I suppose I can see the appeal."

"Mmmm," said Deephoof, quite sure that Farwind understood nothing about Orcs, Trolls, or even Tauren for that matter. "No point in preserving life, is there?"

Farwind's eyes flashed. "You know my feelings on that matter, Deephoof. Leave druid ideals to the Circle while in my camp. The Forsaken gave me a valid point - it is best just to kill her immediately."

"I didn't think of you as one to take advice, Farwind," Deephood said. "What is a member of the Forsaken doing in Feralas, anyway?"

"That's a military matter," he said. "You know this."

Deephoof severely doubted it was a 'military matter,' or any sort of 'matter' at all. Even if it was, it was highly unlikely that Farwind would be privy to such information. A more likely explanation was that the Forsaken was a suspected spy, and was sent to this backwater place where he could do the least damage.

But then, that was only his theory.

"You have no plans on speaking with the prisoner beforehand?" Deephoof asked.

"No," Farwind said. "I have no reason to." He paused. "Is there something you're after, friend?"

_Friend._ The word sounded fake. "No, just curious," he replied. "You must allow an aging _Shu'Halo _his remaining interests."

"What interests would those be?"

_Alway too direct, _Deephoof thought. _How did he make captain?_

"My interest is in the welfare and security of the Horde in Feralas," said Deephoof. "How could it be any other way?"

"Things change, Deephoof," said Farwind. "You know this. Sometimes the thoughts and opinions of druids disturb me."

If he had been younger, Deephoof would have been offended. However, his long life had taught him the value of patience, as well as gave him an understanding of the mindset of those such as Farwind. He felt a small tinge of sadness.

_That poor Tauren will die ignorant._

"I know what disturbs you very well, Farwind," said Deephoof.

"Then I'm glad we understand each other."

_You'll never understand, poor Farwind._

He will never understand what his racial enemies are really like. Farwind is trapped in Feralas, away from any sort of neutral territory, knowing nothing beyond what he was taught.

It was a Cenarion teaching. There was a fine difference between what one was taught and what one experienced. Deephoof understood this all too well, and he knew to trust his own past than the past of any other.

His work with the Night-Elves of the Circle was what he now considered to be his most important experience. The political rivalries still existed, but sometimes those barriers broke. Sometimes, in place of the barriers, bonds were established.

This was what Farwind would never know. This was what Farwind was never told.

Deephoof sighed deeply - a low rumbling in his chest. His discussion with Farwind was more depressing than irritating.

"You will make it quick then?" said Deephoof finally. His thoughts kept turning towards the prisoner, and how much she reminded him of the druids in Moonglade. It had been long...too long.

"I plan on doing nothing out of the ordinary," Farwind said. "She will be kept in the pen until morning. She'll be killed at daybreak, a simple beheading."

"That doesn't bother you?" Deephoof asked, already knowing the answer. He had to ask. It was necessary. It was as if not asking was somehow doing Farwind a disservice.

"No. Unlike the Circle, I am not hesitant about ending life."

"I see," said Deephoof. He glanced towards the cart again, and for the second time noticed the Troll looking towards where the Tauren took the Night-Elf. He frowned, unsure of how to interpret what he saw.

"Forgive me, but I must rest now," continued Deephoof finally. He was not enjoying his conversation with Farwind, and wanted to move on. He chose to use his classic excuse. "My legs, you understand, are beginning to ache. It's been too long since I've had a chance to sit."

Deephoof's legs were perfectly fine, and he suspected that on some level Farwind knew that, but the other Tauren simply replied, "Ah, well you know that there are always places available in the inn. I suggest going there."

Deephoof expressed his thanks, and then left, letting out a deep sigh that he did not realize he had been holding.

Somehow he knew that his stay at Camp Mojache was going to be a long one.

OOO

Azshana had only a faint idea of where she was being taken. She knew that the Tauren that was guiding her was winding around several buildings - as though they were going to the other end of the camp. He was neither particularly forceful nor gentle in his grip, and while her legs were numb after a long march, the Tauren was patient enough to slow down during periods when she was having trouble.

Despite the tropical heat, Azshana felt cold and alone. Valzul had abandoned her, leaving her to fend for herself among the Horde. Her plan was initially about survival: tell Edward a bunch of lies to earn enough value to keep herself from being killed.

And that's precisely what she told him. Lies. Azshana knew nothing of Azshara - she had barely been there before or had met with the sentinels. She knew that her story would not stand up to further inquiry, but there was little else she could think to do. Valzul had made it plain that he would spare no help for her, and it was becoming clear that she would need a strategy of her own in order to stay alive.

And that, if nothing else, seemed to be working. At least she was alive.

They finally reached a makeshift wooden pen near the rear of the encampment - next to a rather established stone building and within eyesight of what appeared to be the barracks. It was small and open to the elements, looking eerily similar to the cage that the smugglers used. Guarding it was a sturdy Orc in a rough leather jerkin, a chipped axe on his side along with a ring of keys. His sour expression betrayed the fact that he was not entirely satisfied with his station.

The Tauren and Orc spoke quickly in a series of grunts before she was taken - almost thrown - into the cage by the Orc. The Tauren spoke again, his voice a deep baritone, the tone of it sounding annoyed. The Orc replied with a short grunt before once again turned his attention to Azshana. Taking his keys, he shut and locked the door.

After another moment the Tauren left, leaving Azshana with an irritated Orc who sat back in his chair against the wall of the stone building. He rested his head back, seeming bored, and closed his eyes.

Azshana, frowning, found a spot in the corner of the cage. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her head on top, the chill that she felt before overtaking her.

She was alone. More alone than she was with the smugglers. At least with them, Valzul was there.

_Valzul._ For the longest time she had been furious at him for leaving her, but now Azshana wondered whether she had inadvertently done something to turn him away.

But her cynical side reminded her of what he had said. He would not help her. Valzul associated that with betraying Thrall. His loyalties were divided.

And now she was paying for it. There was no obvious way to escape from the Horde. Azshana knew that she had only bought herself some time by speaking with Edward. Ultimately, she would need to find a way out, and this time there was no one there to help her. No ogre to knock the cage apart, and no Troll to pull her from the wreckage...

But she _knew _that she would escape, somehow. And when she did, she would go westward, towards Alliance territory, and return to Teldrassil.

_Never again,_ Azshana thought to herself. Her mind irresistibly shifted to her mother's warnings, and she could not help but think how large of a mistake she had made. She was in over her head.

Believing in that Troll had been an error. How could she believe in something that she knew was fundamentally treacherous? She had left herself vulnerable...something she would never let herself do ever again.

But to start, Azshana would need to find a way out of the cage...

OOO

It was late evening, and Deephoof was now taking another stroll through the dimly lit camp, enjoying the cool air on his face and back. There was little else for him to do. He had already bought a room for the night, and dinner had already been eaten. However, he was not complaining. Having too little to do was better than having too much.

Camp Mojache was not like a traditional Horde encampment with strict security and constantly roving patrols. Scarce activity had made the Orcs and Tauren lax, and the only real visible sign of security was the occasional sentry wandering on the fringes of the camp. The camp was dimly lit by torches, and Deephoof could tell that the Horde here had little fear of the Alliance or anything else for that matter. In the dark areas between the buildings, only the full moon provided any sort of light.

At night, most of the activity seemed to be concentrated around the tavern. Light poured from the windows, and even at the considerable distance Deephoof was from the building, he could hear the bellows of laughter and noise coming from inside. An Orc, stumbling, emerged from the front door and vanished towards the barracks. The signs were all there that late-night stays at the Tavern were a sort of tradition among the Horde at Camp Mojache.

Deephoof was never one who drank excessively, or participated in the kinds of rowdiness that was surely occurring within the walls of the tavern. Being a Druid, he held the opinion that alcohol was something best consumed in moderation. Judging from the looks of yet another Orc stumbling from the front door, this was not an opinion commonly shared by those at the camp.

Nonetheless, Deephoof was curious, and began making his way towards the tavern. The light grew as he approached, as though inviting him inside, and when he was close enough he broke off of his meandering route and walked up the wooden steps to the door. He stepped in, feeling a rush of warmth over his face, and the smell of salt and food and spilled ale filling his nostrils. Closing the door behind him, he glanced over the room, taking in the picture of Orcs and Tauren hunched over a table, playing some sort of indiscernible drinking game, of a pair of Trolls arguing loudly about tusk size in the corner of the room, and of more Orcs laughing raucously about some sort of unheard joke. It was disorganized, messy, and chaotic. This, if anything, made Deephoof even more interested.

Deephoof made his way through the clusters of tables, trying to reach the relatively calm area of the bar table. Most of the noise was coming from the side section of the bar, and the main table would provide an opportunity for him to relax and observe. He found a seat near the end, realizing as he came up to it that it was not a chair designed for Tauren. The legs were too thin, and if Deephoof sat in it he feared that it would break.

_More and more becoming an Orc camp_, Deephoof thought to himself. He pushed the chair aside, finding a new, sturdier one, and sat down at the table. As he did so, he realized he had sat down next to a Troll - the same Troll that he had seen earlier unloading the cart that had been brought into the camp.

"Hail," the bartender said. He was an older Tauren with tired eyes, looking as though he had run the tavern for far longer than he cared to. "What can I serve you?"

"Water, please," Deephoof said. The bartender blinked at him, standing for a moment, then moved on to retrieve a glass.

Deephoof turned towards the Troll next to him. "Busy day for you?" he asked casually.

The Troll did not reply. It seemed as though he did not realize he was being addressed.

"Or perhaps it has not?" he added, and at this the Troll seemed to understand.

"Ya mon, every day be busy."

Deephoof could hear the Troll's voice starting to slur, and realized that the Troll must have already had a good amount of drinks. He glanced at the glass in front of the Troll, seeing that it was full of some pale liquid, and then said, "Not every day you are able to come in here, though."

"Yeah."

Deephoof waited a moment, hoping for the Troll to elaborate. When it was clear that he was not going to, he continued, "My name is Deephoof."

"Ah, Deephoof?" the Troll repeated distantly. "My name be Valzul. Jus' come in 'ere today."

"Yes. I saw you unload the cart."

Deephoof thought back to the afternoon, when he had seen the strange Night-Elf prisoner, and wondered at the circumstances surrounding her capture. It was rare for Camp Mojache to receive a prisoner of any sort, much less perform an execution. He thought again of the Troll's frequent glances towards the elf as she was taken away.

"There was a prisoner with you," Deephoof said. "You pick her up far from here?"

"Yea, somewhat," Valzul said vaguely.

_He's not much in the mood for talking_, Deephoof thought. "Must've been quite a struggle, capturing a Night-Elf. I heard they're executing her tomorrow morning."

Unobtrusively, the bartender returned, setting a glass of water in front of him.

"Dat be true," the Troll said quietly.

"It's been many years since Camp Mojache has had an execution," continued Deephoof, hoping to prod some sort of reaction from Valzul. There was something the Troll was hiding, but he was not certain what. "Are you going to be attending?"

Valzul's reaction was not like Deephoof had expected. He set his glass down heavily onto the table - so hard that some of the liquid spilled over the rim. An expression of repressed anger crossed his face. "No," the Troll said tightly.

Deephoof was unsure how to interpret Valzul's response. It was clear that the mention of the Night-Elf's execution brought some sort of reaction from him, but the reasoning was unclear.

"Ah, neither will I," said Deephoof in quiet agreement. "I do not particularly care for the wasting of life."

Valzul said nothing. Whether he was in agreement or disagreement, it was impossible to tell.

Deephoof recalled as much as he could of the Troll's actions earlier in the day, and tried to match it with what he was experiencing now. Unless Deephoof was greatly mistaken, there was an element of concern in Valzul's voice when he spoke about the Night-Elf.

It was impossible, but he could only remember his own experiences in the Cenarion Circle, and the deep bonds that were established between those of different factions. He personally knew the power of such a binding, and the ultimate consequences.

But then, Deephoof was doubting himself more with every passing moment. It seemed highly unlikely that this Troll held an ounce of care for the Night-Elf, and more likely than not was simply drunk and could not distinguish what he was being asked.

Despite himself, Deephoof decided to prod further. "What is the elf's name?"

"What's it matter?" muttered the Troll, taking his glass and downing most if it in one swig. He rubbed his eyes and let his hand fall to the table.

The response gave Deephoof pause. It wasn't what the Troll had said that intrigued him, but what he _didn't _say. _Not "I don't know." _

"I think it matters to you."

Valzul snorted. "Nah, mon. If ya want, I can tell ya what matters." He took another deep drink and then looked sluggishly around for the bartender. Not seeing him, he returned his attention to Deephoof. "So how bout it?"

"You have my attention."

"Alright," said Valzul, and he paused for a long moment. The moment was so long that Deephoof almost thought that the Troll had forgotten what he was going to say. Soon, though, he continued, "Now say dat you were out dere in Feralas with your worst enemy, eh? Say dat you had to work together, dat you had no choice."

"Alright," said Deephoof, wondering where Valzul was going with this.

"Now say dat you've been wantin' to kill dis man for a while, and once you get da chance, you back out last minute," Valzul said. "Den, later, dat same man turns around and saves your life, without you tinkin'. What would you say to dat?"

"I'd say that that man wasn't my worst enemy," Deephoof said slowly.

"Ya mon, ya wouldn't," the Troll said, a tone in his voice that could not quite be identified. "Now say a little later on, ya come across some more of your friends. Your friends don' like da man, and want him dead. You lead dem to the man, and help dem capture him. What do ya tink?"

"I think that doing that would be very dishonorable."

Valzul did not reply, instead staring into his empty glass, as though searching for something. "Ya, mon," he said at last. "I tink da same."

Deephoof quickly rethought their exchange, examining it for context, suddenly realizing that the Troll was telling him more than what was on the surface.

"But..." he began quietly. "...what if that man was a Night-Elf?"

He was not looking directly at Valzul, but Deephoof felt the Troll stiffen in his chair.

"Dat's not what I said."

"But it's what you meant."

Valzul regarded him with suspicious eyes. "I tink I've said enough."

"So that elf saved your life, did she?" Deephoof asked, not willing to let the topic drop.

The Troll looked pointedly around the bar, and then turned back to Deephoof. "Dunno what you be talkin' bout, mon. I'm goin' to get some fresh air."

At that, Valzul got to his feet, left a bit of gold on the table, then unsteadily walked across the bar and through the front entrance. Deephoof waited for a moment before following him, unsure of what the Troll's motives were or what he was planning.

He found Valzul leaning against the wall of the building, underneath a burning torch, his face glowing from light. It was now more clear than ever to Deephoof that the Troll was definitely not sober, and certainly not in the clearest of minds. It was reinforced by his shaky posture, and the sound of his words starting to slur together.

"Who are ya?" Valzul asked.

The question was simple and direct, but Deephoof had trouble answering it. "A druid, formerly part of the Cenarion Circle. I live nearby."

"An' what's your angle here?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"Don' play stupid, mon," said Valzul tiredly. "You didn' start askin' me questions for no reason. You know her?"

"No, not at all," said Deephoof. For a fleeting moment, there was the scent of decay, and just as quickly it was gone. He continued, "I don't know her, you, or anyone in this camp for that matter."

Deephoof was beginning to genuinely become tired. Night wore on, and his desire to sleep grew, but he forced himself to persist. He would not let this Troll make the same mistake that so many others have made.

"Well, if dat's all..." Valzul nodded and began to turn away, but Deephoof spoke again.

"If you owed the elf your life, why did you let her be captured?"

The Troll stopped suddenly, and then slowly turned. He seemed sluggish in a way that could not entirely be explained by alcohol. "You know da answer to dat. Dis is a war, and I'm in dat war."

"War supersedes all moral responsibilities? Such as betrayal?"

Valzul grinned humorlessly. "It's not dat simple. Right and wrong, it's never like dat. Darkspear is in debt ta Thrall, and I will pay dat debt."

"By executing naive Night-Elves?" asked Deephoof. "I've spent most of my life working with the elves, and I have not killed or imprisoned a single one. Does that make me a traitor?"

The Troll remained silent. The rise and fall of voices from inside the tavern were muffled through the thick walls, and the Tauren's voice came out sounding very clear.

"What do you feel Thrall advocates? The blind killing of anyone that's not part of the Horde?" he continued. "How many killings will it take before the debt is fulfilled?"

"I never wanted her dead," said Valzul quietly - so quietly that Deephoof almost missed it.

"That's what's happening, whether you wanted it or not."

"Is dat all?" said Valzul, his voice suddenly heated and intense. "Is dere a point to dis? What would ya have me do? Betray da Horde?"

"I've been alive long enough to know the difference between friends and enemies," said Deephoof, his voice even and calm. "You two aren't enemies, that much is clear. More than that, her death resolves nothing, and completes nothing. It's a empty death. I told you already - I despise the pointless killing of living things."

"Den maybe you should go rescue her," said Valzul with narrowed eyes.

"Why?"

_He's so close to understanding and learning,_ Deephoof thought inwardly. All it would take is a bit more effort.

"You're da one who came to me, telling me all dese things-"

"But you care more about her life than I do, I believe," said Deephoof.

"You know what would happen if anyone heard us talkin' like dis?"

Deephoof said nothing. He knew the answer. But what was right and what was permitted were not always the same thing.

"So you're going to let her die?" asked Deephoof finally.

Valzul opened his mouth as though to speak, but then hesitated. He closed his mouth again and shook his head, seeming torn. Deephoof could see the indecision there, and knew that his words were having the desired effect.

"Yeah, mon," he said at last, surprising Deephoof. His eyes took on a look of hard resolve and he stared back at the Tauren in front of him. "Yeah dat's exactly what I'm gonna do. Dat's what I _have_ ta do."

"Says who?" countered Deephoof.

"Don' play dose word games wit me," Valzul said heatedly, his words slurring slightly. "Ya know why, I already told ya. Dis is bout da Horde and da Alliance, and nothin' else."

"You're lying to yourself," said Deephoof, his voice raised. He was normally very reserved in his speech, and only rarely spoke as bluntly as he was speaking now. It made his words all the more effective, and he immediately caught Valzul's attention. "I've seen this before. No one sits alone in a bar, drinking, rambling to strangers, over guilt. You are drowning yourself in ale because you regret what you've done. Do you understand the difference between guilt and regret?"

For a long moment the Troll stared at him blankly, then slowly nodded. Some of the haziness left his eyes, like he was sobering to what he was being told.

Deephoof was starting to feel the tension in the air - like Valzul was close to experiencing a revelation. It was clear that the Troll was so close - coming to understand something that had been formerly denied. He asked himself why he was doing this - why he should interfere in the affairs of some random Troll and Night-Elf. The answer, he knew, was far away in Moonglade. To give someone something that he never had.

"Then forget the lies," said Deephoof calmly, his voice once again a rumbling basso of an aged Tauren. He wanted to reach out to place his hand on the Troll's shoulder, but found that he was too far away. "Think of this as a chance to make right again."

"Thrall..." Valzul said quietly, as though making one last protest.

"Thrall never killed indiscriminately," said Deephoof. "She is no threat. Would a threat go out of their way to save an enemy's life?"

Valzul cast one last glance towards Deephoof, his expression unreadable, and then stepped away from the building and into the night. Deephoof watched him go, not following, knowing that he had done everything possible. What precisely the Troll would do, he did not know - nothing was predictable. He was confident, however, that he had, for at least a moment, touched Valzul, and made him understand the gravity of what he was doing.

As he turned around to return to the Inn, Deephoof decided that perhaps he wasn't too old to be active, and that something could be gained by mentoring the young, and perhaps saving a few members of a generation imbittered by hate and rivalry. He wondered whether he had been too hasty with his decision to retire. There was something to be said about living out the remainder of one's years as a recluse.

Deephoof suddenly realized that his encounter with the Troll had given him something he had gone without for too long - a sense of hope. Knowledge that he was not the only one on Kalimdor who could see past factional barriers, and even bond with those that belonged not to your tribe or group. If such a thing could happen to a Darkspear Troll, what about the rest of the races?

He was pleasantly surprised to feel the ache in his legs start to fade away, and with renewed vigor he thought up ideas that he could take back to the Cenarion Circle. Ideas of partnerships, of community. Perhaps it was not too late to go back to Moonglade. It seemed like it was not too late for anyone, anymore.

OOO

Valzul was not well practiced at sneaking, but, given the status of Camp Mojache, he did not have to be. Security was lax, as most of the guards were drunk in the tavern, and he had scarcely seen as much as a patrol seen he had gone outside. He had a vague idea of where he was going - this certainly wasn't his first time in the camp - and soon he saw the outline of a cage beside a stone building, apparently abandoned. He moved closer.

The Tauren's words still rang in his mind. What he had said about guilt and regret were so true that it had left him stunned. He _needed_ to save the elf - it was a debt as significant as his debt to Thrall. He could not ignore it.

Trying to appear casual, he crossed the clear expanse of ground to the pen holding Azshana. He was pleased to see no one, though when a gust of wind blew past, he caught the scent of rot on it. He tensed, taking it as a bad omen, and once again looked around, cautiously peering into every corner. When he was satisfied that he was alone, he approached the cage, trying to make as little of a disturbance as possible.

Azshana saw him immediately. She froze, staring at him, not daring to move. He creeped further, furtively looking around the edge of the building for any sign of a guard. There was nothing but an empty chair with a worn, rusted ax on the seat.

"He left," Azshana whispered, her voice sounding incredibly loud on the night air. Valzul did not realize how long it had been since he last heard her speak, and for a moment stood there, surprised.

"What is it?" she asked, a light of hope in her eyes that he did not attempt to match.

Wordlessly, Valzul swept over the chair, searching for any sign of a key. He had no such luck. Turning to the pen, he went towards the door and peered at the lock, jiggling it in his hand, testing its durability. The lock was in poor condition - it was rusted and chipped, as though it had never been used, and had instead been left outside to the elements rather than stored properly.

"Valzul..." Azshana said hesitantly, as though trying to get his attention. He glanced up at her, still not having the courage to speak. "What are you...?" She seemed afraid to finish the sentence, as though it might remind him of what he had said those few nights ago.

Valzul did not acknowledge her unspoken question, and instead motioned her to the back of the pen as he picked up the worn ax from the seat and set it above the rusted lock. Quickly looking around to ensure they were alone, he broke the lock's hinge and set the door free. He pulled it open easily, letting the ax fall uselessly to the ground.

Azshana tentatively got to her feet, as though not completely willing to believe what had just occurred. She took one step out of the cage, and then stared at the broken lock, and then back up at Valzul.

"Get out of here," said Valzul, finding it unusually difficult to muster words. "Go ta Ashenvale, Darkshore - anywhere away from here."

"Valzul...why- what are you going to do?"

"Don' ask questions," he said in a hushed voice. "Ya don' got time. Leave da ax here, let dem tink you got out on your own somehow. I'll be fine. Just go."

Her eyes flashed brightly in a manner that Valzul was unfamiliar with, and before he could react she roughly grabbed hold of one tusk, stood on her toes, and pulled him down so that she could kiss him swiftly on the cheek. Valzul withdrew in surprise, his hand instinctively going to his cheek as though it burned.

"Thank you," she whispered, and fled into the darkened forest. Her violet hair flew out behind her as she passed behind a tree, and then she was gone.

Valzul stood there for a moment, feeling a lingering sensation on his cheek. The kiss was unexpected, but not unpleasant. He stood there, confused, and unconsciously ran his hand along the tusk that she had so quickly pulled so that she would be able to kiss him.

He snapped out of his reverie when heard the gruff sound of an Orc in the distance, and quickly dashed into the shadows to return to his room in the Inn. As far as his companions knew, he had simply left the tavern to sleep off the night. He would not lead them to think any different.

So swift was his departure was that he missed the passing scent of death on the wind, and did not see a vague shape move from its position in the shadows into the light. Quietly, it picked up the broken lock, and then stared at the Troll vanishing in the distance.


	7. The Crossroad

"Your dreams are strange to me, Valzul. How long have you been having dem?"

"Ever since I returned to Sen'jin village."

Valzul was only partially hiding the truth. It had been ever since Azshana escaped. The very next day he had arrived by wyvern to Durotar, and began to have his dreams - flashbacks of his and Azshana's time in the smuggler cage, and their subsequent escape through the forest. For three nights he had experienced these visions, and consistently they left him in the morning tired and weary, as though he had not slept at all.

It had forced him to visit the village's eldest grandmother, Selfa, an old crone that he had learned to trust from the first day that he had met her. Many considered her to be "touched by voodoo", or crazy, but Valzul cared little for what other's thought. He knew her personally to be wise, someone who could be relied upon to give sound advice.

"You know, Valzul, dat whatever you tell me will not pass through my lips?" Selfa said. "I sense dat there is more to dis story dan what you're saying."

Valzul did not reply immediately. He had told her the truth in regards to the dream - he told her of Azshana as well as their joint escape. However, he had not told her _everything_, and for very good reason. If Selfa knew that Valzul had released Azshana from captivity...that he was a traitor...

"Your silence is all da answer I need." Selfa's voice ended uncertainly, as though waiting for the Troll across from her to echo the appropriate answer.

"Azshana be a night elf," said Valzul quietly, moving closer to Selfa so not to be overheard. "More dan dat, she's da one that my brother's patrol captured, and den escaped at Camp Mojache."

Selfa's eyes flickered with understanding. The scent from burning incense hung heavily in the room, making Valzul feel slightly dizzy, but he forced himself to focus on the elder Troll's face, trying to read her reaction. There was little to be seen. Her aged face betrayed little change.

"What have you done to yourself, Valzul?" she asked finally in a maddeningly steady voice.

Valzul did not respond at first, unsure of whether the question was rhetorical. He began to regret telling Selfa about Azshana - regretted coming here at all. Selfa's hard expression made him wonder whether it had been wise to tell her anything at all.

"I've done nothing, Selfa," Valzul said, his voice a whisper.

"There's more," It was not a question. "I can read you clearly, Valzul. I've known you for as long as you've been alive."

He broke his gaze, his eyes trailing towards the side of the room, finding nothing to stare at. He desperately needed something to relieve himself of the Troll's piercing stare.

"I don' tink I should be here," Valzul said. He matched her gaze, then continued. "I don' have anything left to say." He moved to leave, but Selfa's hand grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly firm for one so old.

Valzul froze under the touch - it was like a shock that ran through him. A reminder that this was not just some vague dream of him meeting an old Troll in a dirty hut reeking of bitter incense.

"Wait," she said, her tone turning soft. "I will not let you leave here without a word - not after knowing you for so long."

"Your dreams disturb me, Valzul," Selfa said. "They speak to me of an unwillingness to let go or forget. What do you see in this elf? Why do you not forget?"

Valzul opened his mouth to respond, but spoke nothing. His tongue failed him - unable to articulate what he wanted to express to Selfa. He had already told her the dream, was that not enough to understand?

"I saved her life, and she saved mine," he said at last, the words spilling out of him. "I am- bound to dat."

Selfa looked at him, something like pity in her eyes. "Den you are trapped in somethin' dat I can't get you out of. We not be dealin' with voodoo, Valzul."

"I came here for help," Valzul said. "Selfa - I been knowin' ya for years, an' dere hasn' been a single time where ya steered me wrong."

"Ya, Val, but dis be quite a different matter," she replied, a tinge of regret in her voice. "Dis not be some small matter dat you be dealin' with. You go wrong, and ya might end up bein' keeled. Dese are dangerous times, and you can' go messin' around with some elf an' expect no one to notice or care."

"Selfa..." Valzul's voice was low.

Selfa read more meaning his Valzul's steady gaze than in his words. Finally, she said, "Dis be somethin' dat cannot be settled any other way?"

"No." The word came out flat, certain. Valzul watched as the grandmother closed her eyes, her small, yellowed tusks quivering slightly as though through nervous habit.

It was clear that there was a minor struggle taking place in Selfa's mind. Valzul could read the obvious body language - the way her shoulders tensed and relaxed, the way her right hand trailed softly through the loose dirt on the ground. He felt a surge of confidence in the old crone, though he did not understand why. Some sense of faith was instilled in him from the way Selfa addressed him as an adult, as an equal. Before meeting with her, he feared that he would be ignored or mocked. Now it was apparent that his fear was unfounded.

"Den you go to her," said Selfa at last, her voice strained, as though it pained her to speak. "You go to her, an' you must end your debt."

"End it?" echoed Valzul, the words tasting foul.

Selfa nodded her head, almost sadly. "Have her release your debt, or kill her. Either way, ya must find her. Dis not be somethin' I recommend easily, Valzul..."

"I can' kill her," Valzul said immediately.

"Den you talk to her, and have her release you from your debt," said Selfa. "Dat will ease your conscience, no? You be havin' a sickness dat has no easy cure."

"An' what sickness dat be?"

"Obsession," Selfa replied quietly. "It not necessarily be a bad thing. For some, it leads to dem doing great things for their tribe. For others, however, it leads to their own destruction."

"Obsessed?" Valzul repeated, then snorted. "Dat's not right. Dere has to be a reason for it, an' dere be none for me."

"Your dreams speak differently, Valzul," said Selfa. "My advice stands. Accept it, or don't. Dis just be what I see in you."

"And what do you see?"

The old Troll sighed heavily and moved a bowl of incense closer to her leg, as though to better take in the scent. "We be speaking in circles now, but I will answer you dis one last time. It been a long time, has it not? Since you have met a prospective mate? I believe dis...misfortune has made you susceptible to dis elf. Tink about dat, Valzul. You seek in her someting dat she cannot be. An' now, she has become part of you, a weakness."

Valzul opened is mouth as if to argue, but stopped short and simply got to his feet. He had had enough of this discussion. "Thank you for dis advice, Selfa. You be important to me, an' I won' forget what you said today."

Selfa let out long breath, though it was so slight that it could have easily been missed. Her tusks quivered once more and she said, "Heed my advice well, Valzul. You sever weaknesses..."

He watched her for an extra moment, interpreting her, knowing that he could not do what she wished him to do. He had found himself unable to kill Azshana before, and could not foresee that changing. Valzul shook his head, feeling as though the incense was making him slow and stupid, and strode out her hut and into the blazing sunlight.

"She be right about one thing," Valzul said to himself. He wanted to see Azshana again..._needed _to if these dreams were to ever leave him.

Finding her, however, would be problematic. When he freed her, she did not specify where she would be going. He mentioned Ashenvale, however...

If he had been in her position, he would've headed east, through Thousand Needles, and then north through the barrens - to Ashenvale. While going west from Camp Mojache would have been a shorter route to Alliance territory, it would've been heavily watched by the Horde. Frontier settlements and borders were always crawling with scouts, with the security on the interior of Horde territory, ironically, being more lax.

Valzul was willing to bet she took the same route he would have, especially if she was planning on going to Ashenvale. While his conjectures still left a wide area where Azshana could possibly be, he knew that Night-Elves in general were fast and nimble, and she would likely be in the Barrens by now.

Perhaps he could start there...

OOO

"I know what I saw, Zeenjen," said Edward. He sat back in the uncomfortable chair and focused on the Troll before him, becoming frustrated with the entire conversation. Zeenjen's back was towards him, and the lack of eye contact made it impossible for Edward to judge the Troll's mood or thoughts.

It was only a few days since they were last in Camp Taurajo, and now they were back in Durotar, where Zeenjen had been given a measure of time off until his next assignment. Edward so far was unimpressed by the Troll's dwelling - by the simple furniture and plain walls.

"Ya, but mebbe you saw wrong, ya know?" Zeenjen said finally. "Mebbe Valzul was tryin' to stop her from escapin'."

Edward shook his head. "I saw him break the locks and release the elf. He's a traitor - there's no other interpretation."

"Nah, not possible," Zeenjen snapped, turning around to face Edward. The Forsaken was surprised to see the Troll's eyes widen with anger, his lips pulled back to reveal rows of sharp teeth. "An' don' ya dare say dat about my family again, you undastand dat, Edwed?"

Edward said nothing, then slowly nodded, his own irritation rising at Zeenjen's pronunciation of his name. Was it so hard to say 'Edward'?

"Regardless of that, however," Edward continued carefully. "I have no choice but to report what I saw - especially since Camp Taurajo is vital to the Horde for its position near the Alliance on southern Kalimdor."

He watched the Troll's face as the implications of his words began to set in. Zeenjen clenched and unclenched his teeth, as though trying to reach a decision, and then suddenly turned away.

"Wat do you say, fatha?" Zeenjen asked, seemingly to no one.

It took a moment for Edward to realize he was speaking to the elderly Troll in the corner, sitting on a chair that seemed as ancient as he was. It was impossible to get a good look at him - most of his body was hidden by lack of light, but his face and eyes were clear. He was wrinkled and sagging, with yellowed tusks and rheumy eyes. Edward doubted that the old Troll would even be able to hear Zeenjen, much less form a response.

Nonetheless, he wheezed and coughed, as though trying to speak, but no words came out. Like his throat was dried and cracked.

Zeenjen sighed heavily, barely reacting to the elder Troll. "We must be preserved through dis," he said at last.

Edward knew why Zeenjen was so troubled. He was an ambitious Troll - eager to take on higher ranks and responsibilities in the Horde. Edward knew this, which was why he stayed near Zeenjen whenever possible. It was always good to have powerful friends - especially when they were soon to be even more powerful.

However, having a brother labeled as a traitor would bar him from all of the high ranks in the Horde. The Orcs were extraordinarily wary - and would not risk bringing someone into their circle that was associated with a traitor.

It was a bad situation for him - one that Edward was seeking to take advantage of. He wanted Zeenjen to know Edward was aware that his brother had released the prisoner. This way, he would have more bargaining power to use at a later date. Dirt on a ranking officer in the Horde was something Edward was all too eager to have.

"I came here to warn you of this, nothing more," said Edward carefully. "I did not wish for you to be surprised if news came to your ears of your brother's betrayal."

He stood to leave, feeling that he had made his point. No further exchange was necessary.

"Wait," said Zeenjen suddenly.

Edward paused, turning to look curiously up at the Troll, who was now facing him with both eyes wide and glowing.

"Who else knows of dis?"

"No one but me, Zeenjen," said Edward. He wondered fleetingly of Zeenjen's intentions, his hand grazing over his right hip to feel the reassuring blade he kept sheathed at his side. "As I said, I wished to warn you before speaking to Farwind."

Zeenjen's features lit up in an almost predatory fashion, and he took two large steps towards the Undead, as though to get a better look at him. When he spoke again, his voice was lowered and hushed, as though he were sharing a well-kept secret.

"I tink Valzul has been bewitched."

Edward stifled an urge to laugh. Being an Undead, his expression betrayed very little, but he feared even Zeenjen would be able to detect a certain amount of disbelief.

Matching Zeenjen's tone of seriousness, he replied, "By the Elf?"

"Ya," said Zeenjen. "He was bein' strange since we found 'im. Even told me not ta kill da Elf."  
"Did he?" Edward asked with interest. He placed little stock in Trollish fears of black magic and voodoo, but if what Zeenjen was saying was true, then perhaps Valzul's apparent betrayal made sense after all...to a degree.

"I tink she caught 'im alone in da woods," continued Zeenjen. "An' den worked some of her magics on Valzul so dat he wouldn' tink straight"

"Tricked your brother so that he would eventually capture her and bring her to you?" Edward asked with the faintest trace of dryness in his voice.

"Mebbe she bewitched him after he took her to us den," said Zeenjen irritably. "Either way, my brother wouldn' have asked for da life of no Elf. Dere was some trickery with her."

Edward hesitated. For once he was unsure whether the Troll was simply playing an angle or being serious. He decided that it was probably the former.

"I doubt that such a claim would convince the Horde officers to not stamp Valzul for betrayal," Edward said. "They care little for reasons - just for results."

"Ya mon I know dat," said Zeenjen dismissively. "But dis is about my brother. He could still be bewitched - even now. Da connection between him and da Elf has gotta end."

"Kill her?" Edward said quietly.

Zeenjen nodded. "Den my brother won' be a threat no more, and da witch won' be able to cause any more problems, ya know?"

"And I wouldn't have to report your brother to Farwind either, would I?" finished Edward, seeing what the Troll had done, and slightly impressed by it.

"It would be a very great favah," said Zeenjen meaningfully. "A very great _personal_ favah."

Edward feigned reluctance, but he knew the true value of having a Troll such as Zeenjen in his debt. Orc military details...war strategies...everything would be open to his superiors in the Undercity.

"Ah...but I don't know," said Edward finally. "I doubt I would be permitted very far on my own, and many would wonder where I had gone to if I were to leave your party."

"Dat be easy to solve. I can jus' give ya a pass through Horde land...would be no problem."

Edward kept still his excitement. Free access through Horde land?

"All dat I want is her head mon," Zeenjen persisted. "Jus' kill 'er and bring me da head as proof."

Killing was not a problem for Edward. Beheadings...assassinations...murders...he had done them all before. However, there was risk involved. Risk that the Troll Valzul would attempt to stop him from killing the elf. He was very willing to eliminate Valzul if he tried to interfere - but it would have to be done discretely, and Zeenjen could never be allowed to find out.

"I will do you this favor, Zeenjen," said Edward, his dimly glowing eyes meeting Zeenjen's. The Troll flashed a wicked grin, his pointed teeth showing like knives. "I won' forget dis, Edwed. You evah need anyting - you jus' lemme know. When do ya tink you'll have her dead?"

"It shouldn't take too long," said Edward, his hands shaking slightly from excitement, grazing the handle of his rusted sword. "

Zeenjen was quiet for a long moment, watching. "How will you find her den?" Casual question, low voice. He glanced furtively towards the old Troll in the corner.

Edward did not respond at first. Slowly, as with great pleasure, he unsheathed his sword and held it in the air, running his skeletal hand along the blade. Zeenjen visibly tensed at the weapon's presence, but Edward paid him no mind. His focus was on the other Troll - the father - whose milky eyes were now staring straight at him. The eyes were strangely hypnotizing, and Edward could not help but wonder what the Troll was thinking in his likely demented head.

"If I was a terrified Elf who had just escaped from Camp Mojache, I'd go far, far away," Edward said finally, gripping the sword's edge firmly, feeling no pain. He thought back to what he had witnessed - to the brief exchange between the Night Elf and Valzul through the cage.

Ashenvale was mentioned - Valzul had told her to flee to Ashenvale. Perhaps that is where she went? There were Night Elf holdings in that territory as well as Horde. While it was not for certain, there was a solid chance that she was there.

And where she was, Valzul would be too.

"North den you dink?" ventured Zeenjen. His eyes darkened, as though not quite sure what to make of the Forsaken across from him.

"That's where I'll start," said Edward smoothly. "Do you know where your brother is?"

"I haven't seen him since yesterday," Zeenjen replied. "You don' dink-"

"It's possible," Edward said, cutting him off. More than possible - certain.

With one swift motion, Edward sheathed his sword and got to his feet, startling Zeenjen with his quick movement. "Then I will start now."

"Dat be good news," said Zeenjen with another one of his grins. "I wish you da best on your journey, friend. I will send you your Writ of Passage dis evening."

_Evening,_ Edward thought, thinking that the wait would be too long. Every moment that passed was a moment where the Night-Elf slid a little more out of his reach. If he had any hope of finding her, he'd have to move soon.

"I'll need it now, Zeenjen," he said.

Zeenjen hesitated for only the briefest of seconds. "Whatever you need, Edwed," he said. "What else will you be needin'? Supplies? Food?"

Edward glanced sharply towards the Troll, trying to detect any sense of sarcasm. _Food, indeed. I don't even know what taste is._

"I appreciate your offer," said Edward tightly. "But no such aid will be needed. I travel lightly."

"Den com'ere, mon," said Zeenjen. "If ya want to leave now, I'll sign your papers."

Edward felt himself smile - or smile in the way his ghost of a memory told him to. He had lost his ability to smile when his cheeks rotted and the thin strips of muscle underneath split loose. He still _felt_ himself smile, however, and it pleased him to know that his face would not betray his inward thoughts.

His plan was working out better than he thought it would. The bargaining chip that he caught was bigger than he had originally imagined, and the road to an eventual infiltration into the private military operations of the Orcs was growing short. Fortune was on his side, for now, and all it would take to seal his future was a Night-Elf's blood. Simple.

Edward felt suddenly aware of his sword on his side, and knew that it would have to stay there...for now. He was not yet near a kill.

A small, bitter corner of himself that he would never dare admit to the world protested at his thoughts - at the rotting, wicked creature he had become.

_Sir Edward_, it had called, but in that sly, mocking way that infuriated him even more than the Troll's mispronunciation of his name. He knew what it was - knew it with certainty. It was the distant ghost of his past, separated from his consciousness, not yet gripped by the plague that had stolen his mind and body. In a corner it hid, and from there it burned him, slowing his every step and obstructing his every swing.

But Edward steeled his resolve. "I will prepare them now," he said, and simultaneously the mocking voice went silent.

OOO

The Crossroads had not changed much since the last time Valzul had seen it. All manner of adventurers and soldiers converged there, a meeting place where goods could be sold, gold exchanged, and bounties collected. The dry, hot Barrens air seemed to press down on him as he traveled, making his pack far heavier than he knew it was, causing the horizon to swim before his eyes as sweat dampened his light cloth shirt.

The Barrens was a huge territory, and Valzul did not have the faintest idea where to start. He knew it was unlikely Azshana would be running around in this heat, and would more likely travel at night.

He had gone to the Crossroads to gather needed food and water before heading out to search the few caves that were scattered across the Barrens, hoping to find Azshana in one, sleeping through the oppressive day. He kept his hand axes within easy reach - while the Crossroads may be a Horde town, that fact alone did not make it safe, and while it attracted many adventurers, it also attracted criminals and people with more selfish goals. Valzul had quickly found a vendor selling skins of water, and after packing them away, prepared to leave, hoping to search the land west of the Crossroads before night falling.

Valzul paused at the sound of two people arguing - an elderly Orc and a younger grunt, the former appearing to be a farmer of some sort. He watched curiously as the grunt tore down a slip of paper that the older Orc had evidently nailed to the "Wanted" billboard. This seemed to infuriate the older Orc, whose face reddened with anger. It was an intimidating sight - the Orc was obviously a veteran of some sort, with a long scar down his face and an eye-patch over his left eye.

"Your wasting peoples' time again," spat the grunt, crunching the paper and then grinding it into the dusty ground with his boot. "There hasn't been a Night-Elf this far into the Barrens in years."

The two now had Valzul's full attention. Was it possible that someone had spotted Azshana?

"I saw it with my own two - er - one eye," the older Orc retorted. "Running away after stealing some of my tubers!"

"Eh?" said the grunt. "Just like you saw Dwarves digging for gold in the mountain behind your farm? Or the time you saw a sea monster laying its eggs in the old lagoon?"

"Razormane look _a lot_ like Dwarves, and my tubers are _gone_. You think they walked off?"

"Many things eat tubers in the Barrens," said the grunt. "You should watch your crops better, rather than posting some bounty and wasting some Orc's time!"

"Den mebbe he can waste a Troll's," Valzul said suddenly, stepping into the argument before it escalated and more attention was drawn to them. He did not want to alert anyone to the possibility of Night-Elves in the Barrens.

"Don't encourage him, stranger," growled the grunt.

Valzul knew better than to start a fight with an Orc - especially a guard. Instead, he spoke directly to the older Orc who was posting the bounty. "You said you saw an elf?"

The Orc grinned a toothy grin. "My name is Thork, and I saw the elf stealing tubers from my farm northwest of here. Was at night, and I was going out to relieve myself when I saw her."

"Her?" repeated Valzul.

Thork nodded. "A she-elf. My eyesight isn't so bad as some might think." He glared pointedly at the grunt.

"You're free to waste your time any way you want here, Troll," said the grunt. "But don't try wasting anyone elses'. There are real, living threats in the Barrens, and if you want to help you should kill raptors or the Razormane - not waste time with the nearly blind." Giving Valzul this last warning, he turned and stalked off, seemingly satisfied.

"When did dis happen?" continued Valzul, hoping to glean as much information from the old Orc as he could.

"Just last night," said Thork. "I'd go after her myself, but I can't leave my farm for long - not in this heat, not at my age." He looked Valzul up and down, assessing him. "How would you like to check the area around my farm for me? I saw her running westward around the mountain behind my home, but I have no idea where the elf could be. I can offer you gold in payment, of course..."

"Dat be good to hear," said Valzul. "Would you be able to tell me more about...how the elf looked?"

Thork stared at him as though this was an odd question. Then he rubbed his short stump of a beard and said, "Looked like any elf. Hair on the dark side, I think. Not quite sure, they all look the same to me."

Valzul grunted, suddenly a bit annoyed with the Orc in front of him, then stiffened as a certain recognizable smell passed by him. It was the smell of rot, and Valzul had not smelled it since...

_Edwed..._ muttered to himself, then turned around, searching for the Forsaken that he knew was nearby. Finally Valzul found him, standing just past the inn, his dimly glowing eyes staring straight at him. He leaned lazily a post, not seeming to notice the wide berth that the other residents of the Crossroads were giving him as they passed by. He made no effort to hide his presence, and instead stayed there, meeting Valzul's gaze with unnerving indifference.

"Something wrong?" Thork said suddenly. He turned, trying to see what Valzul was staring at, but his vision was obstructed by the board.

"Nah, mon," Valzul said. "Nothing. How far be your farm?"

The Orc threw him a swift, crooked grin. "Not far, not even an hour's walk. I was about to grab a bite to eat, you want to join me? I can tell you more about the lay of the land."

Valzul was tempted to accept Thork's offer. He did not know much about the Barrens, but the presence of Edward meant that Azshana's life might be in imminent danger. As far as he knew, Edward had no reason to be at the Crossroads, and the idea that the Forsaken may have been sent to recapture Azshana entered his mind. Speed suddenly became more important than ever.

"Nah, I been dere before," Valzul lied. "I'll head up dere, see if I find anything. If I do, I'll let ya know."

"Ah," said Thork, seeming somewhat surprised. "Well, best of luck, friend."

Valzul grinned. "Danks."

He ducked away quickly, hoping to lose Edward. Valzul did not want to lead the Forsaken back to Thork's farm, or give him any idea where Azshana might be. Given Thork's story, there was a strong chance that Azshana was hiding somewhere on the mountain behind the farm. Surely there caves by there...

From underneath the billboard, Valzul saw Edward's feet beginning to move. The Troll, still crouching, ignored the curious looks of passerby and slipped behind a nearby hut. He looked back and forth, stuck between the hut and the large spiked wall that surrounded the Crossroads. No entrance was nearby - certainly not one he could sneak to undetected. Looking at the wall, he stepped forward and ran his hands along the supporting logs. The dry heat had made the wood brittle and chipped - just enough for Valzul to climb.

Looking back once more to ensure he was not being watched, he tossed his pack over the fence, and then quickly scrambled over, falling gracelessly on the ground on the other side in his haste. Not pausing, he scooped up his pack followed the wall northwards. Once the wall could provide no more cover, he dashed off to the west - straight for Thork's farm.

OO

Edward was somewhat annoyed that he had lost track of Valzul, but it was more due to the sudden feeling that he got that he had been outwitted rather than any tactical reason. There were few places to hide in the Barrens, and he was sure he would run into the Troll later on. That knowledge, however, did not cease his annoyance.

Was this was humans called "frustration"? He was not so sure. There were few emotions that he still retained, and sometimes they became so foreign he did not recognize them when he experienced them.

Edward wandered aimlessly through the Crossroads, searching for the Orc that Valzul had been speaking to. Distracted with the Troll's escape, he had lost track of the Orc. However, Edward was confident that the Orc was still in the general vicinity.

But there were so many Orcs, and Edward was starting to have trouble differentiating them. All the same shade of green, all having the same hair in the same places...and the same smell. For a time Edward had thought he had lost his sense of smell, but his arrival at the Crossroads proved him wrong. It reeked of sweat drying on dirty skin, of meat standing out and turning foul under the flies and heat, and of animals spitting and rolling and stomping in the half-dried mud. The sweat, however, was the worst.

At last he found the Orc he was looking for - at least Edward thought he did. It had the same eye-patch, and same stubby beard. He was sitting at a table in the inn, feasting on an animal flank of some sort. Edward touched his sword habitually, liking the reminder of its presence, and stepped inside the building.

_Fear, fear, fear._ The word suddenly began resonating through his skull, echoing, a whisper the bouncing through his consciousness. He brought two fingers up to the side of his, pressing firmly, feeling something like a headache creep up into him. Another feeling appeared, overshadowing the ache. An emotion that he _did_ know - anger.

The shadow of his past life was once more fighting him, and only through willpower did he keep it controlled. _Fear_. It was barely more than a word to him anymore, and his shade dared to try to resurrect that dormant feeling. It failed, was suppressed. Edward would not allow his living side to become a part of him again, no matter how much it tried. Some would allow it, but Edward saw it for what it was - mortal fat that hampered what needed to be done.

Edward paused to consider how best to engage the situation. Certainly it would likely be more effective and fast - not to mention satisfying - if he simply _forced_ the information from the Orc. However, he recognized that it could cause other complications that he was not in the mood or position to deal with. He decided to take the casual, indirect approach. If that failed, well, violence _always_ succeeded.

"Excuse me," Edward said when he arrived at the Orc's table. The Orc looked up at him, as though surprised to be addressed this way. "A certain Troll friend of mine - I believe his name was Valzul - asked me to come speak to you concerning what you two discussed earlier."

"Ah, about the elf eh?" said the Orc, grinning sloppily over his torn flank. Edward felt inexplicably reminded of the pack animals outside, feeding out of the trough. "That's good to hear. You interested in helping too?"

Edward grinned inwardly, knowing that there would be no outward expression on his rotted face. "Yes, tell me more about this elf..."


	8. The Reunion

Azshana sat alone in the cave - tired but awake. Her journey to Ashenvale had not treated her well. Her face was smeared with dirt from spending her nights in various caves, her hands scratched and raw, and her clothes stiff with her own dried sweat from the Barrens heat. The rock she was sitting on had not been comfortable to sleep against, and her lower back ached from being pressed at a hard, awkward angle.

Azshana was waiting impatiently for the sun to fall. Darkness served two purposes. Firstly, it kept her hidden from Orc sight, and secondly was a more comfortable alternative to walking under the oppressive sun. However, it was also more difficult to find food and water at night. She had been reduced to stealing both from any source available - including tubers from some farm that she had passed in the night.

It was not a kind life, and she was not entirely confident where she was going. Getting over the mountain range into Ashenvale was going to be problematic, she knew, but she would have to find a way. Every day she spent in Horde territory was a day she risked capture. One day, Azshana knew, she would be caught. Whether it be by a patrol, a farmer, or an enterprising adventurer, it did not matter. It would all lead to the same unavoidable fate - execution.

She thought back to Valzul - the Troll that had released her from Camp Mojache. It was difficult for her, even now, not to resent him for abandoning her, to let her find her own way back home. However, in the back of her mind, she knew he had little choice in what he could do.

It was hard to forgive Valzul for initially betraying her. Against her better judgment, she had trusted him, and he _knew_ that. Azshana knew it was a pointless feud to hold. In all likelihood, she would never see him again, and it would be best to simply accept her pain as part of a life experience. Never trust a member of the Horde, because first and foremost, that is exactly what they are - the Horde. Valzul had said as much with his explanation about the Darkspear and Thrall.

A dissenting voice, however, reminded Azshana that despite what Valzul had said and done, he _had_ helped her escape from imprisonment. If it had not been for him, she would have been killed and tossed for the carrion. She did not know why he did that - she did not have the time to ask. She liked to think that it was because he had a measure of empathy for her, but given his previous behavior, it was difficult to rationalize Valzul's actions like that.

Presently, Azshana wiped her forehead with her right hand, inadvertently smudging herself with more dirt. She did not like thinking about Valzul. Understanding him was impossible. Few things about him were consistent, and thinking about him was like trying to solve a riddle. Despite this, she tried, and many times, late in the day, that was precisely what she did.

At last she sighed and rested her chin on her knees. She needed to sleep, there was not much time she could afford to spend in the Barrens. Besides the obvious threat of the Horde catching her in their own territory, she had no supplies. The little food she had managed to steal from the farm had already been eaten, and she did not foresee finding many farms further to the north. She had not had access to water since last night, and her throat felt dry and parched. She would not be able to last long in such conditions. The heat, sun, and dryness were all foreign to her, drastically different from anything she experienced in Teldrassil or even Feralas.

Slowly, perhaps a little recklessly, she stood up and walked towards the cave's entrance. She was well aware of the risk of being seen by a Horde party, but the ache in her limbs and the fog of exhaustion that clouded her mind overrode her sense of caution. She wanted to feel a cool breeze, to stretch her sore legs.

Somewhat resigned, Azshana waited, leaning against the cave's wall at the entrance, watching the sun slowly fall from the sky. In the darkness, she could move. In the darkness, she could hope to reach Ashenvale.

OOO

The old Orc had given Valzul very little to go off of. While the farmer had clearly seen Azshana, it was not so clear where she was heading. Valzul knew that the Barrens heat had to have been taking a toll upon her. While the weather was not unlike what he experienced in Durotar, even he was sweating and drinking generous amounts of water. If she was smart, she would be traveling during the cool nights, and retreating into a shelter during the day. However, finding shelter was much easier said than done, as the Barrens was largely composed of spralling grassland with only the occasional half-dead tree. Where could she be?

As Valzul looked up at the mountain that stood over Thork's farm, an answer came to him. Where there was a mountain, there also tended to be caves. Mountain caves, Valzul knew, were notoriously unstable, and he doubted many were inhabited. Thork had also said that he had seen Azshana run westward, behind the mountain...

He immediately sped up, suddenly not feeling the oppressive heat, staring up at the mountain as he began . Like most so-called mountains in the Barrens, it was not that large, though it would still take a day for an Orc party to climb to its peak. The sides were sheer and jagged from frequent landslides, with the broken rock and other rubble forming a sort of cushion along its base. He hoped that Azshana had not gone too far, as there was not much daylight left, and there was no hope that he would be able to search the entire mountainside for caves.

"Valzul!"

The voice came down from the mountain, and Valzul whirled to find its source.

The call came again – and this time Valzul found her. At the entrance of a nearly hidden cave, perhaps not even fifty meters up the mountainside, stood Azshana.

OOO

Edward watched from a distance as the Troll scrambled up the mountain face and into the nearly hidden cave. He waited there a moment, as still as the boulder he was concealed behind, slowly deciding how best to proceed. The Elf was inside the cave - he had seen her beckon Valzul upwards. It would be very easy to climb into the cave, murder the elf, and take her severed head to Zeenjen. Indeed, this was turning out to be far more easy than he originally imagined.

The Orc he had spoken to in the Inn had pointed him towards his farm, speaking of a Night-Elf he had seen. Edward had wasted no time in going to the farm, and was fast enough to find Valzul already there, wandering around the base of the mountain that stood behind the Orc's farmhouse.

Edward did not blame Valzul for being careless. The barren land provided little cover, and it was impossible to avoid being seen while crossing the plains - save adventuring outwards during the night. And even then, what could he hope to find in that sort of darkness?

Edward did not derive any satisfaction in finding Azshana so quickly. Indeed, he felt nothing at all. There was a certain abstract acknowledgment that soon he would have secured his much-needed leverage over Zeenjen, and that he would gain an unprecedented level of access into the movements of the Orc forces, but nothing more. His emotions - his mortal leftovers - were something he had learned to suppress, to ignore. While there were times where he regressed into having emotional outbursts, he had, for the most part, been able to sustain a stoic mindset.

It was with this same dispassion that Edward decided that it would be best to attack now, before night fell. He looked towards the eastern horizon, where the dying sun was beginning to sink under the landscape, and then decided that he could not risk the Troll and Elf escaping his grasp during the night. They could travel to the borders of Ashenvale in the period of one night - and how could Edward even hope to find them again at that point?

He drew his sword, running a finger across its slightly rusted edge. While many would frown at the way he let his weapon fall into disrepair, Edward knew that the sword's poor condition was actually an advantage. The rust and grime that accumulated on its edge would cause any wound to fester and become infected in the chance that his victim escaped. The subsequent fever and sickness would kill his target where the blade could not.

However, he did not want to leave this kill to chance. Edward drew a small vial from his pocket, and, removing the cork, tapped out a thick, brown paste onto the sword's edge. Gently, he smeared the paste all the way to the tip. Poison, while expensive and not always reliable in reaching the bloodstream to finish the kill, would be worth using.

For such an important kill, he dared not skimp. His superiors in Lordaeron were becoming impatient in waiting for the intelligence he promised he could provide. He had sent them a letter through a private courier a month ago assuring them that he would soon have an ear in the Orcs' military command, yet complications had prevented him from firmly securing Zeenjen as a partner. This elf, however, would provide the key he needed. Almost a year's worth of patient persistence and networking would finally come to fruition.

Abruptly, Edward stood and moved towards the path that he saw Valzul take to the cave, his sword clenched tightly in hand. The cave's entrance was empty - they would not even see him coming. A strange, inexplicable feeling came over him - a familiar one that he did not try to suppress. It was excitement, an anticipation for death that spread through his body like a chill. He was in absolute control. The weak, mortal shadow in his head was silent. He was in absolute control, and it _felt good_.

Fear, hesitation, anxiety - weak clutches for the living - were all gone. Edward's sword felt intense and alive. The moment that he truly _existed_ for was at hand. There were no superiors in Lordaeron, or Zeenjen in Durotar, or some war to be won. There was only him and two creatures in a cave that would soon die.

It was not long before he reached the beginning of the winding path that led up to the cave on the mountain's side. With sudden vigor he followed it, ignoring the brittle clay and rock that chipped and fell as he passed. The sun was finally bleeding out across the sky, splashing him and the pale stone with sharp color. He did not acknowledge or even notice it - there was a call coming from the cave, and soon he would be answering it.

When he approached the cave's entrance he began to slow his pace, being careful with noise, listening. The Troll and Elf were speaking in rapid tones, though it was not all clear to him what they were saying. It scarcely mattered. Neither of them were of any value to him. At least alive.

It occurred to him that Valzul was to be left alive, according to the deal he struck with Zeenjen. However, he was not concerned. The Troll and Azshana were holed up in a cave a good distance from civilization. Even if he were to kill the Troll, there would be no one to say that he did. He could simply bury Valzul's corpse in some back part of the cave, where it was likely no one would find it for decades. As far as Zeenjen would know, his brother had simply gone insane and run off into Elf territory, or any other bizarre but possible story.

All that truly mattered was the Elf.

With those thoughts in mind, Edward made the last few steps up the path, making himself visible to anyone that would be watching. He watched as, surprised, the Troll stood to face him, an axe in his free hand.

It was a moment before the Troll actually spoke. "What you be doin' here Edwed?"

Edward felt a flare of anger at Valzul's pronunciation. Maybe he would kill the Troll regardless. "To collect," he replied. Casually, he stepped inside the cave, cool shadows crossing his face. A bit of the sinking sun managed to find its way inside, but not enough for Edward to be able to confidently read the expression on the Troll's face.

Edward decided that it was probably fear. It was always fear. Images of previous men he killed - Elves, Dwarves, Tauren, Orcs - flashed through his mind. Alliance or Horde, Human or Orc, they all are gripped by death the same way.

"Dere be notin' for you to be collectin' here," said Valzul, his voice hard. He raised his axe defensively, not so much in a threatening way, but as though to remind Edward that it was there.

Edward paused, deciding to reevaluate his next action. "Step aside," he said finally, not expecting the Troll to yield.

It was clear to Edward that Valzul was not going to let Azshana die. With the way the Troll and Elf were now together, he wondered with some amusement whether there was not some truth to Zeenjen's belief that his brother was hexed. It was becoming more and more clear to him that Valzul would not be drawn away from the Elf. Edward took a few steps forward, not wishing to delay the kill further.

"Nah, mon," Valzul said with some resolve. He matched Edward's approach until the two were barely an arm's length apart. "Now you best be tellin' me what you be doin' out here."

Edward now had a clearer view of Valzul, and noticed with some amusement at his poor choice in weapons. Hand axes. Fit for tavern brawls, maybe, but not for warfare. The Elf, he noticed with a measure of surprise, was completely unarmed.

_This may be even easier than I thought,_ Edward thought.

"I'm here for the Elf's head," said Edward at last.

Valzul's body visibly tensed at the words. "Dat be sometin' you can't have."

Casually, Edward looked over the cave surrounding him, using the distraction of conversation to his advantage. There were no other exits that he could see. Indeed, the cave's ceiling was much lower deeper into the cave – a significant advantage if he could force the Troll backwards.

"Get out of dis cave, and don't come back Edwed," Valzul warned.

Edward grinned inwardly. Neither the Troll or Elf had moved yet. They allowed themselves to be trapped in the cave, with him securely between them and the sole exit. Valzul was not even in a proper fighting position yet. While his axes were raised, they were poised for neither striking nor any sort of defensive maneuver. He held them like an amateur – or like someone who did not feel threatened.

The Elf, on the other hand, had barely moved. Petrified, no doubt.

"Step aside," said Edward with a tone of finality in his voice. Last chance for the Troll. He was not inclined to stay remain in the cave much longer and delay what was surely going to be an easy kill.

He waited a moment, then, after seeing no reaction from Valzul, poised his sword and stepped towards the Elf. A certain, alien sense of satisfaction grew in him as he saw her recoil.

Then, abruptly, he felt himself shoved roughly backwards by a single, strong sweep of Valzul's arm. Edward had not truly expected Valzul to intervene, and was caught almost entirely off guard. Clumsily he raised his sword defensively as he stumbled backwards, but stiffened in irritation as he saw that the Troll had not even come after him to attack. Valzul now stood directly between him and the Elf, the meaning obvious.

"You have gall, Valzul," said Edward in a low hiss. The old, dimly familiar feeling of anger reared itself in his skull, and with only sheer willpower did he rein his mortal half back in. He was sure that he could smell the mortal reek emanating from where the Troll had touched him.

Words echoed in his mind – shutting down any emotional uprising he was experiencing. _Purpose. Never forget your purpose._

Grinding his rotting teeth, Edward began stepping confidently towards Valzul, his glowing eyes reflecting none of his murderous intent.

"Edwed-" Valzul began, and once again started to raise his axes, but it was too late.

In a flash, Edward lunged forward and thrust his sword deeply into Valzul's stomach, the rusted blade tearing jaggedly through the soft flesh, forcing it upwards towards the ribcage at the last moment before drawing it back. The Troll hunched over, his right hand going slack and dropping an axe, groaning and grappling his enemy's shoulder.

Edward leapt backwards as quickly as he had attacked, moving out of range of the wild, desperate swing that the Troll had made with his remaining axe. Unsatisfied with the progress, Edward raised his sword and, artlessly, sliced down into Valzul's shoulder. The wound was not very deep, and scarcely damaging, but effectively forced the Troll onto the ground, his stomach bleeding out across the cave's dirty floor.

These were the sort of times where Edward truly wished he could smile. Blood covered his sword to the hilt. Stepping over Valzul's convulsing body, he kicked the fallen axes away, and then glanced over his handiwork.

The initial wound he had made was fatal. Edward had sliced into Valzul's lower organs, and he had killed enough men to know that it was impossible to recover from such an attack with proper attention, and difficult even then. The Troll was trembling slightly – a sign of the muscles shutting down – his eyes half shut. Edward backed away somewhat as the blood seeped almost to his boot, and then turned his attention to Azshana.

Only Azshana was no longer there.

Shock shot through his body like ice. Edward whirled towards the cave's exit, but before he could make a full revolution he was knocked backwards by a flurry of violet. His sword left his grasp, landing somewhere towards the front of the cave, and the back of his head smashed against the rock wall. Coming to his senses, he moved to retaliate, but found that the Elf had moved away.

She – who he had previously thought was too petrified to move – was retrieving one of Valzul's axes, and raised it defensively, though it was clear that she had no clear idea how to use it.

Quickly, Edward moved towards the exit, wanting to cut off the Elf from escape, effectively trapping her. It took only a moment for him to realize that it was not necessary. She had not moved – was not trying to run. He cocked his head curiously, reevaluating what he had previously determined to be a predictable pair of mortal fools. She would not leave without Valzul. Carefully, not taking his eyes from Azshana, he picked up his sword from where it landed in the dirt.

Edward did not even try to suppress the surge of amusement that crept into him. He could have laughed out loud if he had better lungs. The Elf had lost her chance for an escape – and all for a dead Troll. How could the living even function with such mortal fat hampering their decisions?

He moved forward almost casually, his sword barely raised, not considering the Elf to be any sort of significant threat. He feigned a swing, at the last moment deflecting a predictable counter swing that she made with her axe. Metal flashed off metal and the Elf stumbled backwards. It was becoming more and more obvious that she lacked any sort of combat experience.

A voice spoke from a corner of his mind. _Easy. Predictable._

He stood and waited, letting her make the next move. He had time yet, and there was no point in rushing what was shaping up to be a rather simple kill.

As Edward expected, Azshana stepped forward and swung out with the axe. He parried neatly and prepared to grab her forearm, effectively disarming her and allowing for a clean decapitation. Before he could, however, her left fist connected with his jaw, stunning him.

He recovered quickly, surprised at his opponent. Almost without realizing it, he touched his jaw, the stench from her hand leaving its taint on his face. He _despised_ that smell. Anger rose up once more, and this time he could not entirely hold it in check.

_Bitch!_ Another voice had come. Retaining control was becoming more difficult.

Edward moved towards her, with no particular stance or poise in his step. He was no longer interested in toying with Azshana. Now he just wanted her death.

He raised his sword as he closed in towards her, his intent obvious. Azshana took a nervous half-step backward.

Devoid of his usual grace, he cut his sword downwards through the air over the Elf's head. Azshana lunged forward into Edward, her axe coming down onto the Undead's shoulder. Edward did not even notice the pain, but growled in frustration as his sword cut through nothing but air.

Roughly he threw her off him, raising his free hand and smashing his fist into her stomach. She recoiled from his punch, and Edward wasted no time in raising his sword once more, and then slamming the hilt into the back of her lowered head, sending her to her knees.

_Kill! Slice her apart._

Voices echoed over and over again, causing his head to throb with pain.

_Bleed the weak fat out of her!_

Almost drunkenly he moved to her side, lifting his sword, trying to silence the whispers that were turning into a dull roar of voices. Never before had he experienced such a sensation. The mortal half of his consciousness was attempting to usurp control.

Her neck was in plain sight, an easy target. With a measure of care, he prepared to deal the fatal blow. The voices too went silent for a moment, almost in anticipation.

It seemed like a split second as she leapt up, her axe flying upwards towards his neck and jaw. He reflexively leaned back, dodging the axe blade just by a hair, the voices flaring back up in his skull as he struggled with simultaneous battles.

Azshana moved to run apart from him, to gain space. Before she could fully escape, however, Edward leapt forward, grabbing her shoulder and tearing her backwards, hitting her again with his other hand as she landed roughly onto the ground.

He wasted no time. He leaned down, grabbing a fistful of her long hair, then dragging her through the cave and to the entrance. Azshana struggled feebly, but the fight had been painfully drained from her.

_KILL-DIE-BLEED-DESTROY_

When they reached the entrance, Edward ripped her upwards, forcing her to her feet, pointing her towards the remnants of the sunset. They stood at the edge of the cliff, and Edward wanted nothing more than to cut out the whore's throat and throw her down the mountainside.

"See that?" Edward said, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. Or at least he thought he said. The multitude of voices made it difficult to tell whether he was actually speaking. The throb in his head reached and peak and his skull felt ready to split open.

"That is fate," he said finally, and put the edge of his sword to her throat.

All the whispers clamored at once for the kill – and so loud were they that Edward did not even hear as Valzul approached his back. Abruptly, his sword arm jerked backwards, away from Azshana's throat, and he felt himself whirled around as the Elf was freed.

"Trolls don' die dat easy, mon," Valzul said, his voice weak but clear. The wounds on his stomach and shoulder, while still jagged and torn, no longer bled.

Edward's glowing eyes flashed – he had been taken entirely off guard. His sword arm hesitated as he realized the precariousness of his position. To say he was shocked would be an understatement. The stoic dam that kept his mortality at bay burst open, and his mind became paralyzed as emotion overwhelmed it. Shock, rage, and even fear – they fought over his actions even as he made one unbelievable conclusion: he was going to die.

Valzul raised his axe and brought it smashing down squarely on Edward's forehead, the blade cutting through the bone with ease. In another flurried attack, the Troll brought the axe around and into his side, crushing Edward's ribcage and a few of the rotting organs contained within. He gasped, barely able to move.

The last stroke came down upon Edward's shoulder, breaking his collarbone and causing a shock of pain to surge through his body. He felt his knees beginning to buckle, his grasp slacken. Pain surged and dulled.

Edward looked towards Valzul, still trying to rein in his emotions, no longer feeling fear or shock or pain, but only hate.

And, with that, Valzul shoved him off the edge, and Edward lost all consciousness.

OOO

When Edward awoke, he found the Barrens sun boring down on him, drying out his broken body – killing him, slowly. He was sprawled out at the bottom of the mountain, lying where he fell, incapable of moving. There was pain – more pain than he had ever experienced in his existence.

And hate. The grim visage of Valzul staring at him, triumphant, was seared into his skull. Unbelievable hate that he didn't even try to suppress. He felt strange, changed, as though the fall had knocked a previously inaccessible part of him loose.

He was no longer concerned with the Elf, or his network, or his connections, or his superiors in Lordaeron. Zeenjen was unimportant. Orcish war movements? Trivial.

Valzul…now that was something he wanted. Strongly. He _needed_ revenge.

Instinctively he reached for his sword, though it took only a moment for him to realize that his left wrist was badly broken, and that his weapon was nowhere in sight. With some difficulty, he tried to assess how badly he was injured.

His right leg was entirely shattered, his left leg not much better. The left side of his face was completely smashed in, and he could only see out of his right eye. His right arm, at least, was functional. Sharp, paralyzing pain welled up out of his chest, and he forced his head up to see a strange, greenish puss rising out from a wound in his side. The effort caused even more pain, and he groaned aloud as shivers of pain ran up and down his backbone and neck.

Edward closed his remaining eye, avoiding the sun. It was suddenly clear to him that he was dying, and there was not a damn thing he could do about it. If the sun did not finish him off, the night scavengers would.

Suddenly, movement. He heard it, in the distance. Rustling through tall grass, heavy footfalls. Not graceful and light, like an animal, but clumsy and heavy.

He tried, once more, to move to see who it was, but the effort was met with even more resistance, and a shockwave of pain raced through him, blinding his vision and causing him to let out a rasping, choked scream.

"Edward…?" A low, guttural voice called out to him. For a moment he thought it was a voice in his head returning, until he heard it again. "Lok'varak Trol! What happened to you?"

Cool shade passed over Edward as a bulky form kneeled by him. Focusing his remaining eye, he stared up at the stranger, trying to see who it was despite the wracking pain that was coursing through his body.

Pale green skin. An eye patch of some sort covering his left eye. Heavy, labored breathing, and the overpowering stench of sweat and dirt and animal filth.

"Thork-" Edward rasped weakly. The pain was not fading, but growing. His earlier movements must have broken something vital. Something liquid was running over his side

"What happened?" the Orc grunted, looking once over Edward's body. "How long have these wounds been festering?" There was a note of panic in his voice. "Was it the Elf?"

Edward tried to speak, but only a gurgle came out and something like mush filled his mouth. Despite his fading vision, his eye was still good enough to see the blood drain from Thork's face.

Nothing felt right. He was losing focus, feeling dizzy, a strong, irresistible desire to close his eye and rest coming over him.

_Not yet_, a voice whispered in his head, so faint Edward almost missed it. _Now now._

He was vaguely aware of the Orc moving over his body, making some sort of attempt to mend his body. A glowing flash of green suddenly erupted from Thork's hands, passing over the Undead's body, and Edward felt a measure of pain leave him.

"That's all I have," the Orc gasped, obviously strained. "I am no shaman."

Some of Edward's strength returned to him, and he felt strong enough to turn his head and spit the mush out from his mouth. He moved his right arm, shifted his waist. The pain was still unbearable, but at least he could function to a degree. He struggled to retain consciousness.

Valzul's face returned to the forefront of his mind, taunting him, mocking him. Rage passed through him, dulling his nerves, overshadowing the pain, his entire purpose wrapping itself around one concept: revenge.

This, more than Thork's healing spell, more than his own willpower, kept him awake. Awareness returned in some sort of heated adrenaline rush of strength. Pain deadened and was forgotten.

"Thork-" Edward gasped again, so quietly so that the Orc would be forced to lower his ear.

Thork bent down. "What? Speak, what do you need!"

"You," Edward said, and with a final effort, bursting his remaining energy, he swung around his good arm and clamped his hand around the back of Thork's neck. He pulled, sharply, squeezing with so much force that he felt the aging Orc's bones bend and snap under his grasp.

Edward brought the soft flesh of Thork's neck to his mouth, chomping down through the meat and jugular, feeling his energy returning as warm blood rushed into his mouth. The Orc barely had time to struggle before he died, shivering briefly under Edward's grip, but otherwise dying the moment teeth broke through the life-giving veins in his neck.

Edward chewed through his prey's neck like a starving man, moving on only after he had reached bone, relishing in a taste that he had not had a chance to savor in years. It was a significant advantage to be able to devour others, gaining more strength than he would have had he eaten a mere animal. It was not demeaning for him, or dishonorable. As a Forsaken, he had a duty to survive. At any cost.

He began to bite down onto Thork's shoulder, enjoying the sensations as blood and flesh restored his nearly destroyed body. He had not forgotten his hate, however. The hate that had saved him, that had kept him alive when his willpower had run out.

It was not about Lordaeron, or for Lordaeron, or for anyone anymore. His personal duty and assignment was forgotten.

The Troll and Elf would die, most certainly.

But he would kill them not for his superiors or for Zeenjen.

He would kill them for _himself._


	9. Poison

"Valzul!"'

Valzul's half hearted groan was the only reply. His left arm was swung around Azshana's shoulder, while his right hand clutched the gaping wound in his stomach. Together, they were limping across the Barrens, the night providing the cover they needed to keep hidden from others.

"Valzul?" Azshana repeated, her mind frantic. They had left the cave several hours ago – with Valzul delirious and stumbling the entire way.

There was little choice. While Edward was dead, it was clear that the cave was no longer a safe haven. While her fear was not only for herself, it was also for Valzul. Why did Edward try and kill Valzul? Did someone find out about what he had done for her in Feralas, and declared him a traitor?

She suspected as much, though did not voice her thoughts out loud. There were more than enough problems to start with. For one, Valzul's wounds were not healing properly, and for another the sun would be returning soon, and there was no sign of any shelter ahead.

"Mmm," Valzul muttered, his voice weak. "I'm 'ere, 'Shana,"

His voice relieved her. Azshana feared that he would not be able to remain conscious for much longer – and there was no way she could carry the tall Troll. Him merely leaning on her for support was straining, much less lifting his entire body. If he were to pass out, they would have to stay there for the remainder of the night, perhaps using some scraggly bush or tree for cover.

_And what then, in the morning? _A cynical voice asked. It carried a feminine tone, like it belonged to her mother. _Pray to Elune for his wounds to heal? There is no shrine in the land of these savages, daughter._

Azshana knew, deep down, that the voice was right. They could not stop tonight. While she knew that Trolls could recover quickly from wounds, this did not seem to apply to Valzul. After his short spurt of strength in the cave, he quickly collapsed, and Azshana looked over his wounds to find that they were already red and festering, with the cut on his stomach still split open.

Traces of a greenish substance in the wound made her wonder if there was not poison on Edward's sword. If that were the case, it may take Valzul significantly longer to recover on his own, if he can at all.

She had no idea where she was going. While Azshana knew that Ashenvale was to the north, she was not sure how much longer she had to go. There was little to see in the dark, and while it was possible that she might reach the mountain ridge that marked the border to Ashenvale, she was not going to count on it.

Valzul groaned again. "Dis not how it was ta be."

Azshana turned to see the Troll in a worse state than ever. There was little color left in his face, and his head was drooped downward, as though it was too taxing to even look forward.

He was not recovering. The wound was killing him.

Azshana's memory flashed back to the cave with Edward – his half-rotten face pulled back into a sneer, the overwhelming stench of decay. Her heart began to race even as she remembered the fight. She had come close to death more than once, as did Valzul.

No, not close. Death managed to touch Valzul, and if nothing happens soon, he will die.

How was it that the Troll that saved her at least three times was incapable of saving himself?

_Even fate has a sense of irony._

"Edwed, he be dead?" Valzul asked, his voice so faint it was difficult to understand.

"Yes," Azshana said, recalling that Valzul had asked that same question twice before. "You killed him."

She remembered passing the Forsaken's ruined body as she and Valzul left the mountain, feeling no pity, receiving only a surge of relief at seeing Edward's final demise. More than her other captors, Edward was the only who truly frightened her. The Orcs and Zeenjen never spoke to her, or disturbed her beyond what she expected as prisoner. It was Edward who she knew could be cruel.

"Ya," he muttered, and more of his weight shifted onto her shoulders.

Stealing a glance at Valzul, she saw that his eyes were half-shut, his breathing becoming heavy, as though he was losing consciousness.

"Need res', just for lil while."

"No, stay awake Valzul," Azshana said quickly, knowing that if he fell asleep, it was unlikely that he would wake. "We need to find help."

_Help? _Her mother's voice crept back into her mind, as it always did when panic started to take her. _What help do you plan on finding? Perhaps some Orcs that would kill you the moment they see you? Or drag his heavy body to Ashenvale just to have the sentinels interrogate and execute him?_

_I'll find a way_, she retorted inwardly. Azshana felt compelled to argue, as though her mother was actually beside her and not a continent away in Teldrassil.

_Look around you. The Troll is dying, and you are no where near civilization._

A surge of protest rose up into Azshana. _I won't let him die._

Her mother's voice fell silent, and presently Azshana turned her attention back to Valzul, who looked ready to pass out.

"Talk to me, Valzul," she said. Conversation, she hoped, would help keep him focused and alert.

"Wha abou'," he said, his words slurring slightly.

"Tell me about your home," said Azshana.

_Or the places you've been. Or what you had for lunch. Just talk._

"Ah, dat be Durotar," said Valzul. His head rose briefly, as though to see where they were, before falling again. A tone of nostalgia crept into his voice. "Sei'jin Village, be right along da coast. Dere be beaches an' good fishin' an' if your up for a bit of a swim ya can swim tah one of da islands."

"Islands?" Azshana said, listening with some difficulty as she tried to avoid some of the jaggier brush that they were now passing through. They were now a good distance away from the mountains - or so she thought. The White Lady provided some light over the Barrens, but it was not sufficient for seeing any great distance.

To the east, a clear outline of a road was visible, stretching from the south all the way to the north. As they approached, it became clear to her that this was a main road - one frequently used by Orc parties traveling between Ashenvale and the Southern Barrens.

Despite the road being a mark of Horde control, Azshana felt a rush of optimism. If nothing else, the road was a sign that they were at least not wandering aimlessly through the wilderness. Choosing the side of caution, she steered her and Valzul away from the road. It would be much safer to follow along side the road rather than directly on it.

"Ya can seem dem sometimes, on a clear day," continued Valzul, a bit of strength entering his voice. "Can swim tah dem too, if ya don' mind a bit of cold water. Dere be jungle and some good huntin' places, though-" His expression darkened. "-it not really be a good place tah go anymore."

"Why is that?" she asked, curious at the strange tone his voice suddenly took on.

"Dere be bad Trolls on dose islands," said Valzul vaguely. "Not Darkspear, not loyal to Thrall. Dey just stay on da island an' kill an' eat."

Valzul paused in his talking, seeming to take a moment to glance around at his surroundings. "I don' recognize dis place, 'Shana."

"Where should I take you?" Azshana asked. If anyone would have an idea of where shelter would be in the Barrens, it would be a member of the Horde - but Valzul simply had not been lucid enough to ask.

He shook his head. "Dis isn' land I be familiar with." With his free hand, Valzul gingerly touched the wound on his stomach. "I never had a cut dat burned like dis before."

_Burned_, Azshana thought. Then it was almost definitely a poison of some sort.

"Any friends?" Azshana persisted. "Do you know anyone who wouldn't ask many questions about what happened with you?"

Again, he shook his head. "I tink I can heal dis, if I just get bit o' rest."

Azshana hesitated. On one hand, she had no idea where she was going, and it was likely that the constant movement was making Valzul's wound worse. On the other hand, however, even a Troll body couldn't counteract poison, and stopping would only slow the inevitable.

She glanced towards the road that they were following, considering the possibilities. Where there was a road, there would be settlements nearby. Surely there was an Orc house or two somewhere ahead that Valzul could receive some measure of treatment at. It was equally likely, however, that there was nothing more but the same endless stretch of grassland.

"I-" Azshana hesitated, until finally Valzul simply pulled away from her, his slightly hunched form staggering over the rock and cracked ground towards the road.

She hurried beside him, attempting to keep him from toppling over, and somewhat reluctantly he accepted her help as they made their way to the road.

"I'll res' by da road," he said. "You should stay away, cause if someone comes along - dere be no one dat looks kindly on Elves in da Barrens."

Azshana nodded her head, and, when they reached the road, watched as Valzul half-laid, half-collapsed onto to the ground, a sigh escaping his lips, his appearance of that of a Troll that had finally found his grave.

She kneeled beside him, checking on his stomach. It did not look any better from when she last checked it several hours ago. While it was not wide and gaping, the wound had turned red and swollen. Azshana did not need to be skilled in the art of healing to know what would soon entail if Valzul was left untreated. His other wounds were not in any better condition. She found traces of a green substance in several, and carefully she attempted to clean some of it away.

Azshana briefly considered whether it had been wise of her at all to take Valzul out of the cave in his state.

As quickly as they had come, she forced such thoughts from her mind. The roots of her self-doubt went deep enough in other places. She had no choice but to move Valzul - the cave was not safe.

"Dat be enough, 'Shana," said Valzul quietly. Gently, he moved her hand from the gash on his shoulder back to her lap. "Sleep, it been a long day."

Azshana did not move immediately. Her eyes flickered from the wound on Valzul's stomach, to his face, before finally settling on his hand. "When I thought you left, you did not." Finally she looked up the meet his gaze.

Valzul shifted uncomfortably, breaking eye contact. "I almost did."

"What changed your mind?"

"Cause dere was no reason for you tah die like dat," said Valzul. "An' wit da way you were actin' from before, ya seem fresh too. Back in Ferala ya weren' very smart in handlin' yourself, and now again in da Barrens." He paused, closing his eyes briefly, taking a quick, shallow breath. "How long have ya been off your tree?"

"Not long," Azshana admitted, with a degree of stiffness in her voice. Was the Troll trying to insult her? "And how long have you been away from your beach resort?"

Valzul let out a dry chuckle, a slight grimace passing over his face as though the exertion caused him pain. "This will be my second year."

"Why were you placed so far south of your home?"

"Jus' followin' my brother," said Valzul. "Zeenjen has been in da Horde much longer dan me, an' wit da way he's comin' along isn' too far away from some big promotions. It's good for me tah be wit him."

Azshana read a little more into Valzul's voice than in his words. "Are you placed with Zeenjen at your choosing or his?"

Valzul did not answer immediately. Whether he was considering his response, or taking an extra moment of rest, it was difficult to tell. "Mostly his. If I were tah get in trouble in another unit, it'd look bad for him. Dis way, if I'm wit him, he can handle everythin' personally."

"He doesn't trust you?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"My brother doesn' trust anyone," said Valzul. "It be hard to."

Valzul paused again, and this time it was apparent to Azshana that he was internally debating as to whether to tell her more. "My father made da mistake of trustin' some of his own kin. Da short of it be - dey broke him, badly."

"I wasn't old enough tah remember all dat clearly, but my brother was," he continued. "Ya won' catch Zeenjen with his back tah anybody now. He be a bit paranoid, but when ya be in da position dat he's in, dat probably be a good thing."

For a moment neither of them talked, instead choosing to listen to the scattered, distant calls of animals as creatures made their way through the night. The White Lady was beginning to fall in the sky, and it occurred to Azshana that it would only be a few more hours before the sun would begin casting its rays over the far horizon.

Azshana turned to look further down the road, searching for lights or any sign of Horde. There was nothing. It was a feeble hope that a Horde party would wander upon Valzul any time soon, and happen to have the motivation and supplies to aid the wounded Troll. However, that feeble hope was all that she had.

Quelling her feelings of doubt, Azshana returned her attention to Valzul. He had moved somewhat, presumably into a more comfortable position, and was now staring up into the sky. If it were not for his open eyes, she would have thought him to be asleep.

There were many questions she had, but did not feel quite ready to ask. She thought back to when she had first met him in the primitive cage of the smugglers. How simple it was to hate someone, to fear them. To try and understand someone was far more complicated than the hate she had originally felt.

There was little that was simple for her anymore. Why had Edward pursued her so far into the Barrens? Why did Valzul come searching for her? Why did Edward try to kill Valzul when they both shared the same allegiance? It was like trying to put together the pieces of several different puzzles, but with the pieces all thrown together into a single bowl.

Perhaps that is why this war between the Horde and the Alliance has gone on for so long. Hate requires little reflect. Hate is a simple, base emotion - easy to grasp and easy to act upon.

Azshana did not even entirely understand her own actions. Saving Valzul was originally part of balancing her debt with his. She owed him a life.

But, while watching Valzul rest in the darkness, it dawned on her that she was _afraid_ of Valzul dying. It was beyond the simple fact that she would be alone.

Fleetingly, she wondered if it would be wrong the pray to Elune for her race's enemy.

"What be your story den?" asked Valzul, startling Azshana out of her reverie. He looked at her with a curious eye.

"I have no story," said Azshana simply.

"Den you be a liar," said Valzul casually. "Everyone has a reason for bein' in dis war."

Azshana considered him for a moment. "I needed to leave Teldrassil."

"Plenty o' ways of leavin' some place, but ya'd need a death wish to go down to Feralas when you're fresh."

"I went where my assignments sent me."

"An' dat's all dere is to it?" There was a note of incredulity in Valzul's voice.

"I needed out on my own," said Azshana, providing a measure of elaboration. "I didn't want to live under my mother's shadow. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life not leaving Teldrassil, like her."

Valzul tilted his head slightly, as though considering her explanation. It looked as though he wanted to ask something, but decided against it and remained silent.

"Do you think you'll make it through the night?" asked Azshana, trying to sound neutral and detached, like she was asking about the weather. While she may genuinely care for Valzul's welfare, she did not want him to know that.

"I tink so," he said. "Da pain not be so bad now. Dere be something in my wounds, though, and it burns. I don' tink it's healin' right."

Azshana looked away and said nothing. It was an old habit of hers, to stare into the distance when she did not want to acknowledge something. In this case, it was, as Edward had said not so long ago, fate.

"Someone will come," Valzul continued. "If dis is da road dat I tink it is, dere be a lot of Horde dat come up and down here from da Crossroads to Ashenvale."

Azshana glanced down at the road that they had been resting on. It indeed looked well used. Deep ruts from wagon wheels were carved into the hard Barren earth, and along the side were patches of cracked soil that would have been mud puddles during wetter times. Tracks of Orcs, Trolls, and worgs were scattered everywhere - some fairly fresh. An encouraging sign of frequent use.

"I can't be seen," Azshana said.

"I know," replied Valzul. "If ya want to get tah Ashenvale, get going. You'll want every minute of night ya can get."

"I'll go when someone finds you. If no one finds you before mid afternoon, I'll need to help move you out of the sun, or you'll die in the heat."

Valzul shook his head. "'Shana, if someone sees…dey'll kill ya, and dere's nothin' dat I'll be able tah do about it."

"If I see someone coming, I'll hide."

The Troll's eyes narrowed as he regarded her carefully. "What be your angle in dis?"

"I don't have one."

Valzul's expression softened, and at last he rested his back on the ground. "Den we should sleep. Dere's not much more time left before da sun rises."

Azshana looked into the sky, noting that the White Lady's position had fell significantly since she last checked. The air was chilly and for the first time she realized she was cold. Wrapping her arms around herself, she moved off the road and towards a thick patch of tall grass. While it was not ideal, it was as good of as a shelter as she would find on the plains of the Barrens.

"'Shana?" Valzul's voice came out low and clear, as though he was afraid someone may hear him.

Azshana stopped mid-stride, turning her head halfway back to Valzul. "Yes?"

"Thanks."

She was not sure how to reply. A small part of her felt obliged to mention her debt to him, and that she owed him a life. That sounded pointless and silly, however, as that scarcely felt like much of a factor anymore.

Valzul told her once that what had happened in the forests of Feralas must stay there. He had said that outside of those forests, they were enemies.

She knew that to be false. Even Valzul, it now seems, has realized that. Loyalties cannot be boxed away and forgotten. He was not her enemy.

Azshana ended up saying nothing at all, instead continuing to the patch of grass, a sudden wave of exhaustion coming over her. She curled up on the dried stalks, recalling the innumerable amount of times she had done this in the past few weeks. She could not remember the last time she had slept in a proper bed.

Cold, uncomfortable, a bit of hunger gnawing at her stomach, she tried to sleep.

But, unlike the previous times, there was a difference.

She did not feel alone.

OOO

"We found the Troll along side the road," the Orc reported to his considerably shorter superior. "Half-dead, wounds going red, not more than a day old."

Deephoof stood within listening distance of the two Orcs as they strode towards two more Orcs that were carrying a covered stretcher back to the group - evidently a Troll that the morning scout had come across. The grunt was giving Captain Sorot the relevant details - something Deephoof was thankful for. It was his only real source of information in a group that more or less ignored him.

Deephoof was part of a caravan heading north to reinforce and resupply a Horde outpost in Felwood. While his ultimate destination was not Felwood, Deephoof requested permission to go along with the caravan with the goal of reaching Moonglade. His encounter with Valzul and the captured Elf had inspired him to leave his retirement, the Troll's actions having restored a certain part of him that had died long ago. Joining the caravan was a simple matter - Captain Farwind was more than willing to grant his request.

Presently, Deephoof watched as the two Orcs interacted. Despite the small stature of Captain Sorot, he more than made up for it with a grizzled, irritable disposition. "This caravan has enough luggage," Sorot growled. "We're not adding to it. If he's a Troll then he should be on his feet in a couple hours."

The Orc knew better than to say anything further, and instead broke away to allow the captain to take a look at the Troll. The two Orcs set the stretcher onto the ground, stepping back to give space. Deephoof, no longer concerned if the captain noticed him or not, subtly stepped closer, wanting a better look at the Troll.

It was Valzul, though he was barely recognizable. Deephoof felt his heart stumble in his chest. He had been beaten badly, it seemed, with a long, ragged cut on his shoulder, and a deep wound in his gut. Both were swollen and appeared infected, as though they had been given little to no attention. Judging from the lack of color in the Troll's limbs and face, he had lost a lot of blood. Deephoof did not understand who could have attacked the Troll in such a fashion, or how Valzul was even able to survive out in the Barrens during the night in his condition. Scavengers were numerous, and - with or without Troll regeneration - his wounds were serious.

Captain Sorot hovered over Valzul like a vulture, his eyes roaming up and down the Troll's body. There was no concern in his expression, only a hint of irritation at being forced to delay the caravan further than it already has. He touched the blade of one of Valzul's hand axes, and then, with an apparent lack of interest stood up.

"A soldier then?" Sorot said. "What unit? What was your assignment?"

"Far," Valzul answered with half-shut eyes. His voice was weak and faint - like he was struggling to speak at all. It was not long ago when Deephoof and Valzul were in a tavern in Camp Mojache, the Troll's voice strong and slurred slightly from alcohol. A bit of a thick Darkspear accent too, though understandable. Especially for a Troll.

Captain Sorot grunted and began walking away. He turned his attention towards Deephoof. "Looks half delirious, and we don't even have a proper shaman with us," He paused, as though waiting for the aged Tauren to get the point.

"I can make an attempt at healing him," Deephoof said. "However, I am not particularly skilled with the art of restoration."

"Then you can fix him?" Sorot's voice was detached, callous. It was as though he were speaking of a goblin machine or engine rather than a living being.

"I can make an attempt, yes."

"Shouldn't matter much, as long as it's enough to get him on his feet. As a Troll, he should be able to take care of the rest himself."

Deephoof wondered whether Sorot was paying attention at all. He was briefly reminded of Captain Farwind from Camp Mojache. "His wounds show no sign of healing - natural or otherwise."

Sorot glanced back at him, as though annoyed that the Tauren had made a comment at all. "Heal him quickly, while I get this caravan moving again." It was a surprisingly mild order, for Captain Sorot.

Deephoof took a moment to prepare. Drawing a small leather pouch from the pack slung over his back, he tapped a small measure of dried herbs into his hand. Deephoof returned the pouch and then balled his hand into a fist, crushing the herbs into a fine powder, before rubbing his hands together until both were thinly covered by the powder.

Slowly, even for his age, Deephoof stepped towards Valzul, examining the Troll with greater detail. The wounds were dire, and Deephoof feared that he lacked the necessary experience and skill to heal him.

"Deephoof?" Valzul's voice was unexpected, but came with a sudden surge of strength that was absent when he spoke previously with Sorot.

The Tauren met Valzul's gaze and nodded. "Speak little, you'll need much of your energy. What caused this?"

"Edwed-"

Deephoof breathed deeply - he recognized that name. "I see. Is he…nearby?"

"Dead," said Valzul. "'Shana took me here."

"'Shana?" The name was not familiar. Unless- "The Elf?"

Deephoof paused, unsure of how to proceed. He had overheard nothing about the scouts finding an Elf scout - so she must be gone, or in hiding. He furtively glanced towards Sorot, who was some distance away, deeply engaged in an argument with another Orc.

"Stay quiet," said Deephoof. His mind raced with the implications of what Valzul had told him.

Events had escalated beyond a simple release of an Elf from a prison in a backwater camp in Mojache. Valzul had killed a member of the Horde, and, at the very least, began to actively associate with a member of the Alliance - all deep within Horde territory. While Deephoof realized that there was probably more to the story than what he heard, he doubted that the Orcs would see it that way. Especially in these troubled times, even having the appearance of a traitor was fatal.

Valzul simply nodded, then rested his head back onto the stretcher.

Deephoof decided to worry about Valzul's precarious position later. At the moment, he just needed to keep the Troll alive. Setting his hands on the gash on Valzul's stomach, he shut his eyes and let his thoughts disperse and drift to the Earth Mother.

It was difficult and unfamiliar. Deephoof suddenly had trouble focusing on his incantation and clearing his mind of excess thought. Abruptly, with little warning, he felt his hands begin to grow warm, and if his eyes were opened he would have seen them emit a faint green glow. The heat increased, building and building before reaching a powerful crescendo, where he instinctively jerked his hands backward and snapped his eyes open.

It was not right - not normal. For an instant, Deephoof felt a chill, a dark substance that counteracted the power of the Earth Mother.

The wounds on Valzul's body were closed, yet in each place on his skin were long, thin scars that stuck out like ridges. They were red and raw, as though they were ready to burst open. Tenderly, Deephoof ran his finger along one, frowning.

"Da pain be gone," said Valzul, the strength back in his voice, though it seemed to waver and slur like he was unused to speaking. "But mon, it all feels like it went straight tah my head."

"A side effect of healing on this scale," said Deephoof distractedly. "It will likely pass in a few hours."

Slowly, Valzul sat up, running his hands over his chest, and then his stomach, as though he could not quite believe the wounds were gone.

"Da wounds still hurt."

"Another side effect," said Deephoof. "You are still adjusting. I understand that you never have been hurt that badly before?"

Valzul shook his head.

"Then move slowly, adjusting takes time."

"Dere be something' wrong still?" Valzul asked when he saw Deephoof leaning over his stomach. Suddenly, as though becoming aware of something strange, he ran his finger along his shoulder, feeling the place where there was once a deep gash. Now, in its place, was a thick, unnatural ridge.

"Poison," Deephoof said, sounding perturbed. "That is why you haven't healed properly."

"You can't cure it?"

The Tauren shook his head, grasping his thigh and looking outward. "I cannot." His breathed out a deep, rumbling sigh. "And I fear that it is working its way through your body, even as we speak."

Finally, Valzul got to his feet, feeling slightly unwieldy, as though the land was moving from under him. Deephoof grabbed his arm, steadying him.

"You must go to master healer," the Tauren said, tightening his grip for emphasis, then releasing. "I don't know what type of poison was used, but if it was a combat poison, then it will kill you in a matter of days. First sickness, then pain, then death."

"Dere be plenty of Shaman in da Crossroads," Valzul said.

Deephoof shook his head. "They will be unable. Feel your wounds!" He took the Troll's hand and brought it to the ridged scar on his stomach. "Do you feel it? The pulse?"

"What does it mean?"

"It means that you cannot be healed," Deephoof explained. "This type of poison cannot be simply cleansed away. An antidote must be prepared, and there are few enough in all of Azeroth that know how to prepare it."

"I felt it, when I laid my hands on you," he continued. "Let a Shaman heal you until darkness falls, but it will not make a difference. All that I have done was bought you time, by closing your wounds and removing the pain. The poison is still killing you."

"Who should I go to?" Perhaps it was the post-healing fog clouding his mind, but Valzul seemed calm, almost resigned to what he needed to do. He wavered slightly, but still managed to stay on his feet without help.

"There are four that I know of that have the ability," said Deephoof. "One is in Outland, another is in the Eastern Kingdoms, so unfortunately they will be unable to help in time. It will take a week for you to reach and find them, and you should consider yourself lucky if you are able to walk two days from now."

"What about da other two?" Valzul asked, his voice tense.

"The third is in Moonglade, and I am unsure whether he has the necessary ingredients on hand to make the antidote. Such herbs do not thrive in Moonglade, so he will likely be forced to have them sent in, which may take several days. Needless to say, you do not have sufficient time."

"And da last?"

"From what I understand, he lives in Ashenvale," said Deephoof. He spoke slowly, as though choosing his words carefully. "I do not actively…associate with him, so he may no longer be there. However, he was once part of the Cenarion Circle, and is one of the best alchemists that I know of. If anyone was capable of extracting such a poison, it would be him."

A half-grin began to form on Valzul's face. "Dat make it an easy choice den."

"There is one complication, however," said Deephoof uneasily. "His name is Landal Moonfall, a Night-Elf that left the Circle several years ago. I do not know of the reasons for his retirement, but, if you find him, he will be your best chance at a cure."

Valzul took a sharp breath. "Ya be losin' your mind if ya think dat'll happen, mon. Ashenvale? Even if da Sentinels don' kill me, how da hell am I gonna get him tah do me any favors?"

"All you need is the antidote," said Deephoof. "If you can take the antidote, then any sort of healer can cleanse the remnants of the poison from you."

Valzul looked ready to deliver a retort, but abruptly stopped. His jaw shifted from side to side, as though he suddenly realized something. "Ya think…'Shana…"

Deephoof nodded, pleased. He enjoyed watching Valzul, seeing him develop before his eyes. The Troll little resembled the one that he had talked to in the tavern at Camp Mojache. It may have been simply an afterglow to the surge of healing that had recently passed through the Troll's body, or, as Deephoof thought, it could have been the certain appearance one takes when approaching their potential.

There was still much distance for Valzul to go, Deephoof reminded himself. But, especially recently, he found it difficult to curb optimism.

"Deephoof!"

The Tauren turned to see Captain Sorot standing by the caravan, impatiently directing stumbling Orcs around.

"Finish up with the Troll, we're moving."

Without acknowledgement, Deephoof returned his attention to Valzul, quickly taking a sizeable pouch out from his pack.

"Take this," said Deephoof, pressing the pouch into Valzul's hand. Inside were several rations of food - enough to last a Tauren for two days, if necessary. It would last Valzul for at least three. "It would be best if you did not join this caravan. The risk to Azshana would be great, and, unfortunately, this caravan will likely not see Ashenvale for another day. You must move with speed."

Valzul set his free hand over the back of Deephoof's hand, clasping it. "I asked ya once before, what your angle was. It don' matter, but thanks."

"Long ago, I was told certain things were impossible," said Deephoof. "But they're only impossible if everyone makes them that way."

Valzul looked tempted to ask Deephoof to elaborate, but, seeing the Orcs beginning to scurry into their caravans, he cut himself short. "Bye, mon."

"Goodbye," said Deephoof. "-And Valzul, do not mention my name to Landal, or tell him that I helped you in any way."

Valzul, looking puzzled, nodded, then stepped off the road, heading north. Azshana, Deephoof knew, would be nearby. He hoped that they would find each other soon.

"He's not dead," Captain Sorot growled. Deephoof turned to see him standing by the front of the caravan. "And here I was expecting that we'd have to delay this circus for another day in order to dig a damned grave."

Deephoof turned sharply towards Sorot, heat rushing to his head. An instant later, he reigned back his burst of emotion, feeling embarrassed at having almost insulted the captain. He had thought his temper had cooled with age, but sometimes it was trying.

_Earth Mother watch over you, Valzul,_ thought Deephoof as he made his way to the caravan. _She knows you'll need it._

OOO

Edward was limping badly, pain still throbbing through his body, but he was alive. He had cannibalized most of Thork's body and tore apart the rest, scattered it to make it seem like the scavengers had devoured it.

It had been years since he has last eaten a proper body, as generally it was something that was only done by need. While not frowned upon by most Forsaken, prudence dictated to avoid doing it in front of allies - namely the Orcs and Tauren. Cannibalism had a strange effect of unnerving most mortals, though Edward did not quite understand why.

Despite the pain, he felt rejuvenated. His limbs worked better than they had in years, as much of the flesh that he consumed went to rebuilding vital sinew and tendon, and one of the first things that he discovered, much to his delight, was his ability to have the semblance of facial expressions once more.

Edward's previous mindset was gone. He cared little for Lordaeron or his superiors or his mission in Azeroth. The mental block that he had installed upon his emotions was broken, and now he found his mind swimming in a sea of swirling passions, urges, and instincts.

What Edward once considered to be mortal fat was now his driving impulse. He laughed with his improved lungs at the irony of the fact that the one thing he considered to be a mortal's greatest weakness had, in a strange turn of fate, saved him. More than that, he felt compelled to satisfy this impulse - this drive that he had.

Edward wanted - no, _needed_ - to murder Valzul. He wanted to hunt and break the barbaric Troll down and drink his blood from a cup. Killing Valzul would be scarcely satisfactory.

With those thoughts in mind, he approached the gates of the Crossroads.

Edward's newfound emotions had not turned him into a fool. He knew that he could not simply go up to Valzul and murder him in Horde territory without any repercussions. He would have to turn the Troll into some sort of villain - into an outlaw whose life was forfeit.

But for that to happen, Valzul would have needed to be wanted for a crime.

And, once again, Edward found Thork to be an extraordinarily useful Orc. Just because he was dead and eaten did not mean he could not still be put to good use.

Emphasizing his limp, Edward approached the gate guard. He knew that he would have quite a disturbing appearance. Dark splashes of blood ran over his clothes and hands - though he hoped that he had cleaned his mouth and lips well enough that the guard would not suspect what truly happened.

"I need to report a murder," Edward said, forcing a tone of urgency in his voice. He immediately caught the Orc's attention, and he had to remember to force himself not to smile. "Thork has been killed by a Troll that recently passed through here - a Troll by the name of Valzul."

**(A/N: As I'm sure some have noticed, I've been tweaking the Troll accent somewhat as I have not been satisfied with the balance between the accent being understandable and authentic. As a result, there's been an inconsistency in the past few chapters. **

**I now have this cleaned up, more or less, so the accent that was present here will be continued in this form for the remainder of the story. Apologies to anyone who is, or has had, difficulties with understanding what Valzul is trying to say.)**


	10. Into Ashenvale

"You waited."

"I said I would."

"Ya you did."

It was afternoon in the Barrens, never pleasant, but somewhat bearable under a particularly hardy tree that Azshana had managed to find. Its branches and leaves were withered, seeming on the edge of death, yet still it clung to life as though in defiance of the surrounding grassy landscape.

Valzul had found her a bit north from where they had previously rested for the night, and, subtly, she followed him until the caravan fell out of sight. It did not take long. The caravan had not even begun to move the last he had seen.

"I was going to wait and see what happened," Azshana continued. She looked at him, her expression soft, a little confusion in her eyes - though it did not seem to matter. "I was worried for you, but you've come back."

"Ya didn't have to, but I'm all right," said Valzul. He momentarily lost his train of thought, but quickly regained it. "Mostly, anyway. Deephoof couldn' take da poison outta me."

Azshana seemed torn between questions. "Why couldn't he? And who's Deephoof?"

"Ah ya, Deephoof is a Tauren dat I came across in Camp Mojache," Valzul explained, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, not wanting to go into much detail. It reminded him of the mistakes that he had almost made. "A druid, and one dat I can trust."

"As for da poison," continued Valzul. "Deephoof said dat it be a type dat he can't cure. When he tried to heal up my wounds, da poison stayed dere, and it didn't heal right."

Gently, Azshana reached out and touched his shoulder, feeling along the hardened ridge that marked the place where Edward's sword had cut him open.

"He's right, it's still there," she said quietly.

Valzul was intensely aware of Azshana's hand on his shoulder - her fingers feeling cold but somehow pleasant. Attempting to focus, he continued, "More dan dat, he told me dat da poison is fatal. Dere may only be a couple days time for me to get da antidote."

Azshana suddenly withdrew her hand and looked up at him. "Days?" She sounded surprised, confused and angry all at once. "Who knows the antidote? Does Deephoof know anyone?"

"He gave me some names," said Valzul, his shoulder feeling very light since Azshana removed her hand. It seemed too warm, for some reason. "But not a lot can make dis antidote."

"The closest one be in Ashenvale," continued Valzul. "A druid named Landal can make it."

"Landal isn't a Tauren name." Azshana tipped her head, as though trying to read him. "Landal is Kaldorei? You can't possibly be serious - there are sentinels swarming through Ashenvale. They'll kill you-"

"Da poison be doing good enough a job of dat," Valzul snapped, cutting her off. He saw her instinctively stiffen from his tone, and immediately regretted his words.

Valzul turned away from her, somewhat ashamed, hating the way her disapproval effected him. Gently, he continued, "But dere not be much choice in it for me."

Valzul felt her hand rest on his should, as though reassuring him. Her touch calmed him, and for a moment he was not concerned - not with Zeenjen or the poison or the creeping reality that one day soon he would have to tell Azshana goodbye. He remembered Selfa's words, but even now he knew he could not follow them.

"Four hands are better than two," said Azshana softly. "Right?"

Valzul smiled as he remembered the last time that she had spoken those words. Their time in the smugglers' cage seemed ages ago, yet he was intensely aware of how far they had come since then.

"Four hands be better dan two," Valzul echoed in agreement.

A moment passed where neither of them spoke. A strong wind swept up from the east, giving them a small respite of coolness. The tree creaked and groaned above them, yet no branches fell.

"There's not much time," whispered Azshana.

Oddly, time was not a large concern for Valzul. He had brushed with death several times. Between Centaur, voodoo witch doctors, and scorpids, Durotar was hardly a bubble of safety.

"'Shana, ya don't have any debt tah me," he said finally. "Ya be takin' some big risks, but I don' tink ya understand dem."

"I understand enough," said Azshana sharply, folding her arms. "I understand that without help that you'll be killed or succumb to poison before ever reaching Astranaar. And, if by some miracle you do find Landal, what are you going to do? Knock on his door and ask nicely?"

Valzul grinned. "I don' know about da nice part…"

"And learn enough Darnassian to figure which bottle is the antidote?"

"Chug em all till I get it right."

"Or fall over after drinking the distilled deathweed," said Azshana dryly, though she was now smiling.

Valzul considered her with mock seriousness. "Maybe I need ya after all."

Another gust of wind came, shaking the tree violently, and through the tangle of branches he saw the sun beaming partway down the sky, now past its zenith.

Azshana must have noticed it too. "We should go - how are you feeling?"

"Fine," said Valzul. "My shoulder be a bit stiff, but dere's no pain."

"How far is Ashenvale from here?" Azshana asked, a grimace passing over her face as she looked over the wound on his shoulder.

"Not far," said Valzul. "But da main road is guarded well. Dere be a side path over da ridge though dat isn't watched much. It be best to take it during da night, though."

It was uncomfortable leaving the shade of the tree and once again being forced to endure the oppressive heat from the midday sun. It was difficult to adjust to, especially when the only comfort was an occasional, merciful breeze. Valzul removed a skin of water from his pack, the water feeling cool down his throat even though it had to have been as warm as the Barrens itself.

He offered it to Azshana. "Dere might not be another chance tah drink before Ashenvale."

She nodded, taking a quick drink before returning it to Valzul. "Between the Thousand Needles and the Barrens, I'm forgetting what forests look like."

Azshana began moving forward, going only a few paces before realizing that Valzul had not yet followed.

"'Shana-" he began.

"I'm not doing this for any sort of debt," said Azshana simply.

Valzul wanted to ask "Then why?" There were a hundred reasons why it was a bad idea for her to help him. Ashenvale was crawling with sentinels that were actively hunting wandering Horde. More than that, he had no idea where Landal was. It would take a small miracle for them to be able to find Landal, get the antidote, and escape without attracting the attention of the sentinels.

Valzul knew that Azshana was already aware of the risks. As a Night-Elf, she probably knew the risks better than he did. He also knew that she was his only chance of getting the antidote.

Not so long ago, his understanding of life revolved around "live and let die." That was simply how Trolls managed to survive in a world that, more often than not, acted against them. A Troll that cares is a Troll that will be losing his tusks. Apathy was a medicine that was taken twice weekly.

That philosophy was one of the major reasons why Thrall's rescue of the entire Darkspear tribe had such a profound impact. No Troll would do that for another Troll - yet this Orc did.

Valzul started forward. No words were necessary. Azshana stayed at his side as they traveled north.

He decided that he was thankful that, of all things, Azshana was not a Troll.

OOO

The Barrens was the last place that Inspector Gallek had wanted to be at the moment. The heat from the sun combined with an unusually moist breeze had turned what had already been a mess into a rotting pile of flesh and bone. He tried to ignore the flies and the stench as he stooped over the remainder of Thork's corpse, trying to determine some of the details of the murder - or at least validate the Forsaken's story. As an Orc, one would expect that Gallek would have a degree of tolerance for the heat, but he absolutely despised it.

Gallek had been summoned from Camp Taurajo in the latest of a series of assignments that had him bouncing around the southeast of Azeroth. He had been told that this was most definitely going to be his last case before returning the Orgrimmar. But then, that was what he was told with every case that took into some of the worst land in the Horde territories.

There was little for him to examine. Much of Thork's body had been mangled or eaten by scavengers, and there was no solid evidence of what had occurred within the cave. By all appearances, the Troll and Elf had simply walked away after participating in whatever barbaric feast they had arranged. Indeed, the only evidence that a Troll and Elf were even here was a mass scattering of footprints in the dust along with splashes of blood both in the cave and leading off into the grasslands.

And, of course, Thork's body - or whatever was left of it.

It was not clear precisely how the Orc had died, though Gallek was not too concerned with that. Judging from some of the more preserved pieces of bone, it was clear that Thork had been sliced apart with a short sword or dagger before being eaten, though Gallek did not quite understand what purpose the dismemberment would serve. Maybe more convenient to chew?

According to the Forsaken in question - Edward - he had been acting on orders by Zeenjen to track down Valzul after accusations arose concerning the escape of an Elf from a Tauren camp in Feralas. Edward had found Valzul and the Elf in the cave - the Troll having reverted to his base cannibalistic nature by feasting on poor Thork, who he had found living alone in a hut nearby. Valzul attacked Edward, and they fought for a short while before Edward became severely wounded and escaped. It was a simple explanation - one that Gallek found easy to agree with.

Drawing a sheaf of paper, Gallek noted what he found along with his agreement with the Forsaken's story. There was little to write. The presence of Troll and Elf footprints moving into the grasslands together indicated an association between the two. The additional fact that the Troll had simply left the scene without reporting the crime to appropriate authorities, as well as accusations that the Troll had actually released the Elf in Camp Mojache…well, the evidence was more or less damning.

Gallek considered visiting Thork's hut, and perhaps asking residents of the nearby Crossroads additional questions regarding Valzul, Thork and Edward. He had already spoken with one of the guards, who informed him, if nothing else, that Valzul was in the area when Thork died. Indeed, the two had even briefly met.

Inspector Gallek folded the sheaf and returned it to his pack. There was little more to learn, and the case was clear-cut. Why draw the investigation out when he could be on his way back to Orgrimmar within the week? In fact, he wondered why they had even sent him here. Why couldn't the local guard have handled it?

_All in all_, Gallek thought has he began to move away, making his way back to the main road. _Not bad._

It had been a simple investigation, if not revolting. He had never entirely believed that the Darkspear had entirely given up cannibalism. Few, he suspected, actually did believe the Darkspear truly have. There had always been sporadic rumors of cannibalism, but rarely did they gain much attention. This was the first that he had actually encountered a case relating to it.

Gallek would need to report his findings back to the Crossroads, then inform the guard in Orgrimmar and Thunder Bluff.

Now, maybe, they would finally allow him to return to Orgrimmar.

OOO

Edward doubted that Azshana and Valzul would head any direction besides north. West would take them to Mulgore, where they would be enclosed in a vast prairie by mountains in every direction. East would take them to Durotar, where Azshana would have no chance at hiding. South would send them past several fortified Horde towns, not to mention backtracking through poor terrain. Ashenvale was their best option, given the innumerable places they could potentially go once they were inside the territory.

So, when Edward learned from Captain Sorot that they had encountered a wounded Troll along side of the road, he was not surprised.

"There was a nasty cut on his shoulder and gut," said Sorot as his caravan lumbered north on one of the many uneven dirt roads that were scattered throughout Horde territory. It was easy to tell that, in the grand scale of time, the Orc presence there was relatively recent.

Edward traveled alongside the caravan on foot, gazing over the grasslands, encouraged by the good visibility that the day was providing. It would not be difficult to see someone crossing the plains, even at quite a distance away.

"Are you going to tell me what this is about?" Sorot continued, sounding annoyed.

Edward did not reply immediately. His attention was further up the road, on the horizon. How many miles could a Troll and Elf travel in one day? If they managed to reach Ashenvale before him, it would prove difficult to find them. The vast forest had plenty of hiding places.

"I'm asking you a question," growled Captain Sorot. "What business do you have with this Troll?"

Edward felt a rush of anger. "I heard your question." Emotions were difficult for him to control. After going for so long without them, he now as though he were on an ocean, with little control over the amplitude of what he felt. Even mild inconveniences or affronts made him furious.

"I am hunting him," said Edward tightly. "He is a fugitive from the south who was caught committing murder."

Sorot's nostrils flared. "I should have figured as much. To think the Tauren even healed him-"

Edward turned sharply to see the Tauren in question, who was in turn looking directly at him. An odd sensation crept over him and he wondered what the hell the Tauren wanted.

"Mentioned something about a poison too," Sorot continued. "So maybe if your lucky the bastard is already dead."

Edward suddenly remembered the poison he had smeared on his sword and instantly regretted it. It seemed rather anti-climatic. He doubted that the druid would be able to cure it, and Valzul might not even realize that he had been poisoned until he was halfway into the coffin.

At least he would still be able to kill the Elf.

"Was there anyone else with him?" Edward noticed that the Tauren had glanced furtively at him, as though he were listening.

Captain Sorot shook his head. "No one. If he came all the way from the Crossroads like that, that's fairly impressive.

Edward turned to look forward, though in reality his eyes were still on the Tauren. "I don't believe he did. In fact, he likely received help from a Night-Elf."

The Tauren visibly stiffened - a telling reaction. Edward wondered how much that the Tauren actually knew.

"There was no such Elf near when we found him, or they would have been killed on sight."

"Who is the Tauren that healed him?" Edward watched as the Tauren slowed his pace, and fell out of sight behind part of the caravan. He felt a wave of intense pleasure, almost like laughter.

"You mean Deephoof? He was picked up in Camp Mojache back in Feralas. Part of the Circle." Sorot stared at Edward as though he were staring at a madman. "What the hell is so funny?"

Edward just realized that he was wearing a wide, ridiculous grin that was stretching the fresh muscles in his face to the limit. There was something hilarious with the way the Tauren reacted, and it was difficult to force himself to focus. His chest heaved and he wanted to laugh, but fortunately his body's poor condition prevented it. Edward had taken too many liberties, and he felt something rupture from within his chest. Instead of laughter, a bitter, coppery taste flooded his mouth as he coughed up fluid from one of his lungs.

Edward regained some of his composure, wiping some of the blood away with his hand. "Deephoof, you said?" He recalled seeing Valzul speak with a Tauren at Camp Mojache. He wondered if there was any sort of connection.

"Yes," said Captain Sorot. He leaned away, as though disgusted. "If that's all…"

Edward did not even hear the captain. He had already slipped away, around the caravan, searching for Deephoof. Instinctively, his hand wandered to the hilt of his sword, liking the sense of reassurance it provided.

Edward's eyes shifted from the main caravan to a smaller cart that was trailing near the rear. He found Deephoof there, legs folded, reading from some sort of aged book. It could not have been comfortable, sitting in full view of the sun on bare wood, yet he did not seem to mind.

The Tauren was definitely the one Edward saw speaking with Valzul in Camp Mojache. Though he did not know what they spoke about, he felt assured that Deephoof was somehow involved with the Troll's movements. If he was not, then it certainly was a strange coincidence.

Edward set a skeletal hand near the Tauren's hoof. "Your name is Deephoof."

Almost immediately Edward felt a wave of stench come over him, as it always did when he approached a mortal. The salt from dried sweat, the odors of old food being carried on their breath, the lingering smell of dirt and feces - it was like an aura that surrounded the mortals and everything they made.

"And yours is Edward." Deephoof did not look up from his book.

The Forsaken tilted his head slightly, reevaluating the Tauren. Indifference was not an emotion he encountered often. "I need to know where Valzul is going."

"I will not tell you that."

Edward had expected denial. He had expected an evasive non-answer, or maybe an outright lie. Deephoof did not seem to be the least bothered by him. Did the Tauren have some sort of protection that he was not aware of?

"He is a criminal, a murderer," Edward said. "Do not protect him."

Deephoof's eyes never left the pages of his book. "You're a liar."

Edward felt his temperature rise. He glanced towards the front of the caravan, seeing the Orc guards there. If it were not for the Orcs, he would have already drawn his sword.

"I already know Valzul is going to Ashenvale," said Edward. "Tell me where he is specifically headed."

Deephoof did not reply.

Edward was beginning to lose his patience with this Tauren. He did not have time to waste on persuasion. In a low voice, he said, "I could kill you before the Orcs can even turn around." He grabbed his sword and drew it several inches to emphasize his point.

Carefully marking the page, Deephoof set his book aside and turned the meet Edward's threatening gaze. The Tauren was unfazed, a hardness in his eyes telling Edward that coercion would be pointless.

"You could, but you won't," said Deephoof evenly. "Kill me, and everyone will know you as a murderer, and you'll never even make it past the borders."

"I can just as easily kill you later."

Deephoof, with apparent disinterest, picked up his book again. "You're threatening an aging Tauren with death. Do you really expect him to care?"

Edward began taking deep, ragged breaths. His mind teetered between two choices. One favored shelving Deephoof's death for later, while another, fueled by his pride, wanted to do nothing more than to pull out his sword and skewer the Tauren right through his leather bound book. His hand gripped the handle of his sword like a vice, and, irresistibly, he began to draw it.

Deephoof did not see Edward's hand move. Indeed, he was not even looking.

_It would be easy, absurdly easy, _Edward thought to himself. _The Orcs wouldn't even hear him die._

Edward felt himself being tempted. It was almost like Deephoof wanted to be killed. Why else would his answers been so bold, and his appearance so confident?

Edward felt himself go cold, and, pleased, sheathed his sword. He had almost been tricked into making a grave error before realizing that the Tauren had attempted to bait him into a murder, thereby turning the Forsaken into a fugitive. While his hatred had saved him, it had just nearly cost him his vengeance.

He felt a cool wind wash over him, calming him further. Recklessness served no master, he remembered.

"I will save you for another day," Edward said. There was no ice in his voice, but a relaxed tone that was in stark contrast to how he spoke earlier. "After Valzul, I will come back for you."

He did not wait for a response. He was not interested in a response. Edward left the Tauren in the cart, disappearing around the side with such speed that he missed the instant where Deephoof, ever so briefly, looked away from his book to watch him go.

OOO

Water dripped from the leaves of the trees and foliage surrounding them, and Valzul fleetingly wondered whether the forests of Ashenvale were at all similar to the teeming jungles of the Darkspear's home islands. The air was heavy with moisture from a recent rain, yet it was also cool. It smelled untouched, unspoiled - so much unlike the Barrens and Thousand Needles, where the land had been gutted open like the carcass of a hunted animal.

The thick canopies of the ancient trees effectively blotted out the sun, allowing only a few stray beams to fall here and there onto the forest floor. Rival shrubs and plants struggled for the little light that was available, sometimes with thin branches that stretched like fingers into the air. Even the darkened areas seemed to thrive with life - with molds, fungus and vines crawling over the rotting husks of fallen trees, the dampness only managing to hasten their growth.

Smooth boulders sometimes formed small hills sporadically in the forest, their skin having a certain violet sheen to it that made Valzul originally think that it was covered by small crystals. The hue, upon closer inspection, seemed to be natural, though he did not understand how. The boulders were like islands in seas of low foliage, shrubs and vines. However, they were not entirely barren - lichen was smeared across the shadowed side, and moss grew out from certain earthy crevices near the base.

"I don't think we're too far," whispered Azshana, kneeling atop a thick tree root that had pushed itself out from the ground. Bits of violet flowers grew through the root as though using it for cover. Taking a moment to look at her, Valzul was surprised to see how at home she appeared - for once, comfortable.

"What is dere to look out for?" Valzul asked. Azshana had actually gone into Astranaar to ask about Landal's residence while he had waited safely on the town's outer limits. Fortunately, she had discovered not only that Landal was still in the area, but that he had a residence to the south, where he grew herbs and practiced alchemy.

"I'm not sure," said Azshana. "I didn't want to ask too many questions or attract any sort of attention."

Valzul nodded. While time was important, he was not yet feeling the effects of the poison. He assumed - and Deephoof implied - that there would be an onset of sickness before death. Only a day had passed since he had left the Barrens.

"The sentinel had said it wouldn't be far…" Azshana slid off the root and furtively climbed the next hill, staying low and in the shadow of the nearby brush. Valzul followed closely, knowing that she had more experience with this type of territory than he did.

"There!" Azshana's voice was hushed, but he could still hear excitement creeping into her voice.

Valzul crawled next next to her, kneeling at the top of the hill and looked over her should at the clearing ahead of them. A makeshift pathway of broken stone snaked its way through a thicket of bramble, leading to a massive tree. Its thick branches sprawled out through the air protectively over a smaller, almost unnoticeable cottage - huddled discretely at the tree's base. The cottage's style was distinctively Night Elf, with dark wood pillars supported a violet-tiled roof. A bit of brass trimming was the only evidence of flare in an otherwise simple wooden house. A well tended garden was laid out nearby, the sprouting herbs visible even at a distance.

Valzul turned to Azshana and grinned. "I bet dat tree is big enough tah build a village out of."

Azshana's eyes went wide. "You couldn't possibly- these trees are protected!"

"Ya, and I'm sure dat hut over dere isn't made of wood right?" said Valzul dryly, gesturing to the cottage in the distance.

"It's not the same," said Azshana, then, smiling, motioned him closer. "Come on, let's take a different way down."

He followed her around a nearby tree, presumably down a route with more cover. There was barely enough room to kneel, and more than once Valzul had to disentangle his tusks from resistant branches.

"Never been tah Ashenvale before," Valzul said.

"What do you think of it?"

"Wetter dan I thought…"

They had reached a point where the brush was too thick to pass through - Azshana stopped turned back to Valzul.

"…but easy tah look at," he finished.

Azshana's gaze lasted a moment longer before she went aside and crawled through the foliage to a more open area.

Valzul quickly followed, glad to finally be in an area where he could stand up - if he wanted to. He turned to see that the stone path that he had seen from the hill was now only a short sprint away, and that it would be best if stayed somewhere out of sight.

"I'll go ahead alone," said Azshana. "If he sees you, or anyone sees you…"

Valzul nodded. "No on will be seein' me."

As Azshana made her way down the path, he searched for a spot that would keep people from seeing him as they came down from the hill, as well as giving him a view of the cottage. Valzul did not particularly care with the vague way Deephoof described Landal, as though there were a few secrets that the Tauren did not quite want to be known.

Valzul watched with a measure of anxiety as Azshana crossed the clearing, towards the small door of the cottage. It just occurred to him that Landal might not even be home - indeed, there was no sign of activity inside of the lone window. He saw her approach the door, knock, then wait.

It occurred to Valzul that he had originally sought out Azshana in order to release himself of her - to find the cause of his dreams, and remove it. Ironically, circumstances had made him even more entwined with her, and Valzul wondered fleetingly whether it was even possible now for his path to diverge from hers. Others in Sei'jin had surely noticed his absence by now - likely thinking that Valzul had passed under a hexed archway and had been jinxed by voodoo, or some such explanation.

But then, here he was, deep in sentinel territory in the company of a Night Elf, hoping to gain the generosity of yet another Night Elf in order to be cured of a poison that he had contracted while defending a member of the Alliance.

_Dey might have a point with me bein' jinxed, _Valzul thought. _Dat, or fate has a strange taste in irony._

OOO

Azshana was beginning to wonder if anyone was even home. What if Landal had gone traveling, or would be absent for several days? The implications beginning to set in, she realized that Valzul did not have several days.

A moment later, the door opened and she was greeted by a Night Elf that looked as though he felt far older than he was. He had silver hair that was tied behind his shoulders, and eyes that were far dimmer than what could be considered normal. In his right hand he gripped a cane, though he did not seem to lean on it.

"Alah darnana dor. Landal Moonfall?" Azshana spoke hesitantly, unsure of whether she was even speaking with the right person.

"Danlyia?" His voice carried a tone of incredulous disbelief. He stepped forward, as though to get a better look at her.

Azshana could see the lines on his face, the strain in his eyes. Suddenly it dawned on her that Landal was nearly blind. "No, sorry, my name is Azshana Evera, of Teldrassil."

"Ah," he said, the disappointment in his expression evident for a fraction of a moment before he turned around. He retreated into his cottage, and Azshana, unsure of whether to follow, waited at the entrance.

"Forgive me, your voice and shape reminded me of someone else," Landal said. His voice took on a more tired tone. "I suppose you're here for healing? Or perhaps some sort of potion or herb?"

"Yes-"

"Then come in," Landal said simply.

Azshana entered, closing the door behind her. The inside of the cottage seemed to be divided into three sections. In the back of the cottage was a sturdy door that she could only guess led to a cellar or storage area.

To Azshana's right, half hidden by a curtain, appeared to be a lounge area, though she could only guess from the presence of a well-used, overstuffed seat. Beside it, on a spindly table, was a vase of flowers, and the picture of a Night Elf woman with violet hair. A thought rose to her mind - was the woman Danlyia?

Immediately in front of Azshana was a sort of alchemical workstation, with a long, wooden table that extended the length of the wall. On the section closest to her was a mortar and pestle along with a mess of glass bottles and beakers, some cracked, others corked and containing a seemingly volatile fluid.

Further down the table was one of the largest books Azshana ever seen, with the faded title _Comprehensive Alchemy_ written in Darnassian. It looked as ancient as it was large, with the binding falling loose, and the cover beginning to curl inwards from a combination of age and exposure to moisture. She wondered what purpose it could possibly serve - certainly Landal could not read it.

Above the table was shelving that seemed dedicated to the storing of dried herbs and other ingredients. Near the end was Landal himself, retrieving several bottles and setting them on the counter in front of him. It was interesting, watching him move. There was no hesitation, no fumbling, as though he knew precisely where he had places all of his instruments.

"So what ails you, Azshana?"

"It…wouldn't be for me," she said. "It would be for a friend."

Landal paused for a moment, as though mulling over her response. He tapped his cane against his foot. "I see. Then what does your friend suffer from, and perhaps I can accommodate."

"An antidote, he has been poisoned."

"Poison?" Landal said with a measure of surprise. "There are few venomous creatures in Ashenvale. What did he contract it from?"

Azshana's mind raced. Valzul did not mention what specific antidote was needed - though he may not even know either. She certainly could not tell him the truth - but then, that information was vital to get the right cure. She decided to simply alter the story.

"He was attacked by a Forsaken on the road to Felwood - we believe there was a poison on the blade." Azshana hoped that none of her uneasiness had leaked into her voice.

Landal frowned, then, slowly, turned towards her. His dimmed eyes matched hers, and despite the fact that she knew that he barely possessed sight, she was unnerved.

"Have you not reported this to the Astranaar guard?" Landal asked. "I supply them with antidotes for such poisons frequently, so I do not have them available in my shop."

"I- I did not know."

"Then, now you do," said Landal dismissively. He broke his gaze from her, and, almost casually, he walked towards his lounge area, stopping immediately before he passed the door to his cellar. His gaze, whether intentionally or by coincidence, was lined up with the picture on the simple stand by the chair.

"I would suggest your hurry, Danl-" He paused mid-sentence. Correcting himself, he repeated, "I would suggest you hurry, Azshana. Some poisons, if not treated in a timely manner, can be fatal."

Azshana froze, not knowing how to proceed. Going to the Astranaar guard was not an option. They would not simply hand her the antidote and send her on her way - they would insist on administering it themselves, and would likely ask difficult questions. Not that Landal was much better, but she could not risk Valzul being caught by the sentinels.

"It's a matter of urgency," Azshana said. "He's sick - he needs the antidote soon, or I fear for the worst. I do not want to risk taking the time to go to Astranaar."

"Traveling to Astranaar will be far shorter than me preparing a fresh antidote," Landal said. "Is there anything else?"

Azshana felt cornered. What could she say? Landal seemed to have made up his mind. She would not leave, however. She _could_ not without the antidote.

The Night Elf turned to look at her once more, and Azshana could not get rid of the feeling that she was being judged. "Are you ready to tell me the truth? I may be blind, but I'm not senile."

She suddenly wanted something to stand behind. A chair, a table - anything. "I can't."

Landal's voice was firm. "Then you will never get the antidote. Do you truly need the antidote for a friend?"

"Yes."

"Why does your friend need it?"

"He was attacked by a Forsaken."

Landal's voice, which, up to now, had been calm, gained a hint of aggression. "You're very like Darnlyia," he said, walking to his chair, then slowly sitting in it - almost like he was discarding her. "At least, superficially. I can tell that you are lying."

"I'm not!" There was no hiding the exasperation in Azshana's voice. In less than a minute, she had seen the Night Elf in front of her go from relatively serene to hostile.

"Then why do you not want to involve the guards?"

Azshana did not answer - she did not dare to. With the way the conversation was going, announcing that the antidote was intended for a Troll would only result in disaster.

Finally, Azshana spoke - her voice soft and barely audible over the birds outside. "I was told that you could help us. I will offer any payment within my means - I just need the antidote."

Landal did not seem moved, though when he spoke next, it carried a gentler tone. "Who told you to come here."

"A druid - a Tauren."

It did not provide the reaction that Azshana was expecting. Landal's entire body visibly stiffened, and his hand gripping his cane as though it were his lifeline. "I have known only one Tauren in my life," said Landal, now more aggressive than before. "And he should not have dared to send his companions to me. Get out of my home!"

Azshana reflexively backed away - mistaking her angle and hitting a small shelf of books near the door behind her. The shelf collapsed with the books, everything scattering over the floor as Landal stared at her with anger.

"What did-" Landal stood up from his chair, walking towards Azshana and she bent to try to gather the books. "Leave them and get out-"

"I didn't mean-"

"I said leave!"

Azshana paused - seeing that one of the books was opened to the title page. That in itself was not interesting. However, under an ornate design of leaves and two flanking trees, was the name _Danlyia. _A diary.

Azshana was inadvertently reminded of the picture on the table, and the comments Landal had made about how similar she and Danlyia were - going as far as to confuse names.

There was little hesitation as she grabbed the diary and set it under her arm, glancing towards Landal and hoping that his sight was poor enough that he did not notice. Opening the door, Azshana retreated from the cottage as Landal ordered her never to return, though it was apparent that he did not notice the book she had taken.

Quickly leaving the deceptively serene cottage behind her, Azshana made her way back to the stone trail, the diary securely in her hands. She was not even entirely sure why she took it - except for a vague hope that perhaps it would contain something that would help her understand Landal and get him to prepare an antidote.

Going to the sentinels was out of the question, and there was not enough time to go elsewhere for the cure. Landal was Valzul's only chance - and Azshana needed to gain some sort of leverage over him before the poison finishes its course.

It was not long before she found Valzul beside the trail. Wordlessly, she went into the brush and set the book onto a flat rock, a few stray strands of light fighting their way through the foliage to dimly illuminate the cover. Whoever wrote the cover had a nimble hand - the lines were delicately traced, following traditional Kaldorei design.

"Who are you, Danlyia?" she whispered as she gingerly flitted through the leaf pages to the first entry.

**(A/N: Next update may or may not be released for a couple weeks due to traveling plans. It won't be 3 months - I promise.**

**For those who are wondering, we're about halfway through the story. It may end up longer, depending on if I wander off much with subplots, but that's the current plan. **

**Now - I more or less have been dividing chapters into varying perspectives of characters, mainly Valzul, Azshana, and Edward. Are there certain characters or perspectives that you want to see more of? Or less of? Or perhaps more details or more numerous action scenes, or dialogue scenes. I appreciate the positive reviews I've received so far, however if there's a certain aspect of the story that is simply bad or boring, or could be improved in any way, I'd appreciate that feedback as well, if not more so. Anyway, drop me a line if you have a chance,**

**Womo)**


	11. In Dreams

_His mouth was dry, his tongue feeling swollen in his mouth. The air was thick with burnt incense, making it difficult to breathe. His tutor regarded him with disappointed eyes, and he already knew what the answer was going to be. _

_Yet he had to ask._

_His tutor did not answer him at first. Light from the candles and torches blurred his vision. Knights - paladins - passed through noisily, heedless of the two men alone in the corner. Somewhere, someone cursed as they dropped their mace on the hard wooden floor._

_It was difficult to speak, and he was not sure if his tutor heard him. He asked the question again._

_His tutor seemed to bow his head slightly, as though unsure what to say. The gray whiskers on the tutor's chin seemed to quiver. The tutor's lips moved, and he saw rather than heard the denial._

_He leaned against the stone wall. His whole body shook. Again! He had been refused again!_

_He felt a hand on his shoulder - and abruptly he pushed it away. His head began to pound as heat rushed through his body, eclipsing the cold drafts that blew in from the windows. He felt suddenly warm. A thin sheen of sweat gathered on his forehead and hands. _

_Knights glanced curiously in his direction. His tutor murmured something but he did not hear. He needed to leave._

_He walked alone down a stone corridor, the walls bare except for an occasional sconce set high on the wall. His footsteps echoed, he could feel their stares on his back. _

_He would not forget this. He would not forgive._

_Smoke and ash burned his nostrils has he descended through the tower. The walls were smeared with a black soot that marked poorly designed ventilation. He wondered if his tutor had realized the mistake that he made._

_He would fight and kill whether he was part of the Order or not. The Light did not discriminate - why should they? _

_He swore it. This, was the last time._

Edward awoke with a start, his breath shallow and rapid, his rotting heart thumping vainly as though he still lived. Just as quickly, it went still, and he stared around at the Ashenvale forest. His hands trembled as though from cold, and he stared at them in confusion.

Edward was not immediately aware of that emotion he was experiencing. Grabbing his weapon, he got to his feet and turned around in a circle, peering into the darkness, his sword outstretched as though preparing to meet any beast that dared to charge him.

Every shadow was a dragon, every rustle of leaves was a scourge raid. The muscles in his arm began to twitch as though strained. Steam rose with his breath and suddenly Edward began to wonder where he was.

_Ashenvale._ He remembered. _Ashenvale._

Edward began hearing movement - slight at first, but growing. More than what could be explained by wind. A memory of the dream surfaced in his mind - of men in armor walking over aged floorboards, of strong drafts sweeping down stone corridors.

"Da trail still be goin' strong," said a voice. Edward turned, recognizing it, relief washing over him as he saw the outline of a figure step into the cold moonlight. "But dere be rain comin', and den da trail not be so good mon."

Edward had found the Troll lounging among the Orcs at the Barrens-Ashenvale border. A leather harness was thrown over his chest, with a bit of mail glinting underneath. Tribal tattoos ran from his right shoulder all the way down to his heel. His name was Rin'zi or Riz'ji or Rin'jin or some other absurd name that Edward was not interested in remembering. He ended up settling on calling the Troll "Rinz". The Troll, for his part, did not seem to mind.

Rinz was a born hunter, or so he claimed, and so far Edward was not dissatisfied. A custom made bow strung with Kodo sinew and a type of redwood found only in Darkshore was slung over his shoulder. Arrows tipped with thorium were bound together in his quiver. The only conspicuous detail that Edward had noticed was the absence of a pet, though he was not particularly concerned.

"Edwed, ya hear?" Rinz raised an eyebrow curiously in his direction, his thick Darkspear accent producing the pronunciation that Edward so strongly hated. He spoke worse than Valzul.

Why were Trolls incapable of saying _Edward_?

Yet Edward ignored such shortcomings due to present necessity. He needed a tracker to find Azshana and Valzul through the dense Ashenvale forest. More importantly, he needed a tracker that asked few questions, and knew that discretion was more than a ten letter word. So far, Rinz expressed no complaints and offered no questions about finding a Troll and Night Elf in the middle of Ashenvale, and then appropriately leaving Edward after finding them.

Edward presumed that a sizeable advance payment had satisfied the Troll's curiosities.

"Edwed?"

"Yes, I hear," said Edward, the initial wave of relief giving way to annoyance. The nightmare he had was still fresh in his mind. It felt uncannily real.

"Den we should leave soon," continued Rinz. "Da trail is strong but dis still be old. Mebbe a day tah catch up. Dere be many, ah -" He paused, as though searching for words. "_Tuvak_, ah-"

Edward stared as the Troll fumbled. It was obvious that Rinz spoke little of anything outside of his native Zandali tongue.

"_Sentinels_," said Rinz finally. "Dere be many sentinels in da forest along with dis Troll an' Elf. Da tracks-" He pointed westward, along the road.

"Avoid them," said Edward. Killing a sentinel would be more trouble than it was worth. Astranaar was a Night-Elf hive in the middle of Ashenvale - any disturbance, and countless sentinels would begin to swarm.

Rinz's mouth twitched as though he did not like the sound of that, though he nodded curtly and tapped his bow. His meaning was clear. If they encountered sentinels, he would not hesitate to kill and backtrack. Quietly, he turned away and disappeared once more into the forest.

Edward shut the Troll from his mind, his thoughts turning back to his dream. The memory itself instilled fear - though he did not comprehend why. He felt certain that it was real - a record of his past spontaneously replaying as he slept.

It had not been the first time Edward had flashes of his past. Previous ones, however, had been calmer, more controlled. Never before had he reacted so violently to a memory. He felt dirty, as though his fear had tainted him. Being able to relate so keenly to the mortal living disgusted him.

Edward recalled how viciously he had denied his lingering humanity. Emotion was something he suppressed - was fat to be removed.

How long ago that seemed.

Since his near-death at the hands of Valzul, he had changed. The deep part of him that he so scornfully resented for so long had manifested itself in a flower of anger - and that alone had saved him. In a way, the feeling was addicting, and no longer could he suppress it. He did not even want to.

It was not without costs, however. He had never had such a vivid dream, and Edward wondered if he was not beginning to unconsciously unlock his human memories.

A cold, instinctual chill ran through him. His memories were a half of him that have long been locked away, though he never truly understood why. Some Forsaken attributed the lapse to the damage to the back of his skull, where part of the bone had been bashed inwards. Others believed it was a simple act of self-preservation - that the gate had been set in place to keep his human life from suffocating his unlife.

Remembering his terror, Edward wondered what nightmares might still be lurking in his mind. His fear was irrational, he knew, but it was there nonetheless.

The rusting gate that had separated his two lives was finally beginning to shatter. Indeed, its collapse had begun many days ago, ever since Valzul had tested it in the Barrens.

Now, Edward would be able to see. Now, he would know. Yet, for reasons unknown to him, he was afraid.

OOO

Inspector Gallek had just finishing mailing his reports to the proper authorities in Orgrimmar and Thunder Bluff, indicating his belief that Valzul was guilty of associating with a Night Elf, as well as responsible for the murder of Thork. He was pleased that it had been such a simple case - a positive change from the difficult investigations that often had too many suspects and too little evidence.

Gallek paid his tab to the Innkeeper before leaving, wanting to return to Orgrimmar as soon as possible. While the accommodations at the Crossroads were not bad, they were nothing compared to his home. And the food… The first thing he would do, he decided, would be start a fire and a spit with a sizeable chunk of boar roast.

He wondered whether it would be worth talking again with a certain Orc Huntress that he had met - though the last time he had spoken to her had been when he had first left the city, several months ago. She probably was not even still single.

"You work fast," said an Orc grunt as he stepped out of the Inn.

Gallek almost ignored him - he wanted to return to Orgrimmar before he could be reassigned. "It was straightforward."

The Orc nodded. "Wasn't much of a surprise when I heard it. Thork was half-crazy, always calling strangers for help with Night Elves and demons and everything else that he hallucinated out in these lands."

"These aren't trusting times," Gallek said. He hoisted his pack over his shoulder, beginning to walk away.

"When he started begging that Troll for help," continued the Orc. "And then that walking corpse…it was just a matter of time."

Gallek froze in his tracks, turning around sharply. "He asked who for help?"

"A Troll," the Orc answered, looking at the Inspector quizzically. "And some Undead. I remember warning the Troll, I try to keep an eye on Thork, telling newcomers to avoid him."

Gallek's mind raced - the Forsaken had never mentioned meeting with Thork. What was the name? Edward. The implications of his oversight were enormous. If nothing else, withholding that sort of information was highly suspicious.

"So," said the Orc guard in a lowered voice, leaning closer to Gallek. "Which one of them killed Thork?"

Gallek ignored the question - his trip to Orgrimmar forgotten. "What did the Forsaken look like?"

"Well, bit on the shorter side, with ragged clothes that he was probably buried in," The Orc took a moment to think. "And he had a sword on his side that was being eaten by rust - like he never cleaned it at all. Kind of surprised me, most Undead, if nothing else, make sure their weapon stays sharp."

It was definitely Edward. Gallek could recall the detail with the sword as well. "Do you know where he went?"

" Not sure - there something wrong?"

"No, nothing," said Gallek, leaving the confused Orc behind him. If what the guard said was true - it was possible that he had read the case wrong entirely.

He reviewed the facts in his mind, the unanswered questions becoming glaringly apparent. What would a Troll and Elf be doing in the center of the Barrens? Why was Thork's remains collected in one area instead of scattered? It seemed almost as though Thork had been pounced upon at the base of the mountain, and eaten there. While Gallek was not familiar with Darkspear feeding customs, he was fairly certain that Trolls favored cooking their meat before eating.

Gallek's hand shook as he reached into his pocket, drawing a sheaf of paper with a list of notes that he had taken at the murder site. He reread each line before his eyes finally settled on the third to last line: _"Appeared to have been sliced into smaller pieces."_

While there were exceptions, Gallek also knew that nearly every Troll favored axes or bows over swords - and no axe could make the clean cuts that he had found on Thork's corpse. Turning the sheaf over, he found in his notes from the Crossroads guard that Edward had specifically stated that the Troll was using hand axes.

His heart pounding, Gallek's mind reached only three conclusions:

_1. Edward had misinterpreted what he had seen, and provoked a Troll into a fight._

_2. The Elf or Troll had a bladed weapon that Edward simply had not seen._

_3. Edward was lying._

The first conclusion, Gallek highly doubted. The second conclusion made him wonder why Edward had neglected to mention that he had met Thork before encountering the Troll and Elf in the cave in the mountain.

The third conclusion, now seeming to be the most likely, was also the most terrifying, with the most dangerous of implications. The Forsaken, he knew, had no scruples against devouring the corpses of the vanquished if they needed nourishment. However, there was a line between devouring corpses of fallen humans in the far off lands of Tirisfal, and killing and devouring your allies on the doorstep of Orgrimmar.

Gallek did not dare to make such an accusation until he had evidence. His haste may have cost a Troll his life, but the political implications of changing his report against the Forsaken before having sufficient support were staggering.

Gallek's thoughts turned back to Orgrimmar. He had been close, very close. It would be simple to ignore what he realized. Chances were that few people cared about what happened in the Barrens anyway.

What happened with the Troll did not ultimately matter. The fool was asking for it by associating with an Elf. What was he thinking?

But then, that was yet another unknown factor in a case that was becoming less simple with every passing moment.

Gallek sighed, resigning himself to staring across the ramshackle settlement in front of him. The hovels were small, the meat was spoiled, and the women were ugly.

If he left now, he could reach Orgrimmar within a day. Somehow, however, the city seemed very far away.

OOO

Rain was coming. Azshana could smell it in the air. Trees groaned as the wind pulled at their branches, stray leaves swirled and settled in niches along the forest floor. The warmth of the sun had long dissipated, leaving an uncomfortable cold in its wake.

Night had fallen over Ashenvale, and while the White Lady still managed to shine through the thick canopy, Azshana had trouble navigating down the broken stone pathway. She paused when she reached the clearing, Danlyia's diary in the crook of her arm as she crouched behind a tuft of thick foliage. Just ahead, Azshana knew, was Landal's cottage, and despite the darkness she could still make out its outline - an unmoving mass against a background of waving brush and trees.

Carefully, Azshana began to cross the clearing, intensely aware of how visible she was. Though Landal was blind, other Night Elves were not, and Azshana had no idea if sentinels were patrolling nearby. It was not long before she reached the cottage, but to her, every minute seemed to stretch.

Azshana's hands trembled, and it was not entirely due to the cold. She pressed herself against the cottage and remained still, listening. There was no sound from inside, and she could only assume that Landal had long since gone to sleep.

She had no interest in talk. The diary had told her everything - or at least enough to know that further debate would be pointless.

There was little time left. Sickness had begun to set into Valzul, and the poison had begun to irritate the scars on his shoulder and stomach. Dizziness had taken him, and though Valzul claimed that there was no pain, he was unable to walk steadily. Azshana had left him further into the forest, under the lip of a boulder, hoping that she would be able to return to him before the poison progressed.

Azshana had stolen before - but never from another Night Elf. She knew the risks of her actions, she knew the consequences.

Irresistibly, she thought of Teldrassil. Her theft had been from furbolgs - the Gnarlpine tribe that had gone mad. It had been a small feathered brooch - a trinket of little value. When she first saw it on a stump by a Gnarlpine hut, she thought it as beautiful.

Azshana's mother was the one who destroyed it. Her mother's anger at having been near the Gnarlpine was surpassed only by the fact that Azshana had stole from them.

She still remembered her mother's argument. _Appreciating life is not as important as respecting it._

The words seemed wise until Azshana grew older. Life, even the corrupted furbolgs, deserves respect. The Horde, however, does not.

The midnight sky began to rumble, wisps of cloud beginning to darken the White Lady. Feeling slight droplets of rain, she reached for the carved oak handle of the cottage's entrance.

Azshana pulled the handle, the latch clicked. The hinges groaned as the door opened inwards. She stilled her breathing - she had not expected it to be unlocked.

The inside remained virtually unchanged from since she had left earlier that day. Books had not moved from where they had fallen. The assortment of alchemical vials and dishes remained in the same positions as they had earlier. For a moment, Azshana thought Landal was not home, until her eyes caught a light in the far corner.

A candle dripped wax on a spindly wooden table, illuminating only a little outside of its limited glow. Landal, in an overstuffed chair next to the stand, stared forward, only part of his face being shown by the flickering light. His eyes, though dim, still shone in the darkness. His robe was dark purple with a matching sash, and his silver hair was swept messily over his shoulders.

For a moment, Azshana thought he was staring at her. She did not move, instead frozen in the doorway. No reaction crossed Landal's face. Then, slowly, his hand wandered to his knee, covering a picture that rested on his knee. Azshana did not see the picture, her attention instead focused on Landal's gaze.

Azshana's first instinct was to flee. Landal was nearly blind - he could not possibly recognize her. But she could not - she could not leave without the antidote.

"So very like Danlyia," Landal said, his voice a rasp. "What else do you wish to steal from me?"

There was no emotion in his voice, no anger. His face was calm and serene, as though he had awoke from a pleasant sleep.

Azshana did not answer. She clutched the diary as though it were a shield, not willing to go backwards nor forwards.

"You did not think I would notice that I was missing her diary?" Landal asked. He leaned forward slightly, allowing more candlelight to splash over his face. It looked as though he had aged a hundred years in a single day, with lines running across his face, the tips of his ears and lips seeming to sag.

"I needed to know," said Azshana in a voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, she was unsure if Landal had even heard her, his attention having turned towards the picture on his lap. She watched as his hand began to trace the outline of the frame.

"And do you, now?" said Landal. "Is your curiosity satisfied?"

"What happened to her?"

"What happened?" Landal echoed, as though the question lacked substance. "What happened to her is the same as to what happened to all of our kind since the sacrifice of Nordrassil: death."

Azshana spoke gently, but with a tenor in her voice to match Landal's. "You feel that her death is Deephoof's doing?"

"No," he replied shortly. A flash of anger crossed his face before returning to its original placidity. "He may have been foolish enough to become infatuated, but he did not dare to act. What he stole from me was time with her. Danlyia-" He stopped suddenly, and when he spoke again his tone was soft. "-was easy to love."

Landal fell silent after speaking, seeming to reflect on what he had said. His jaw loosened, his stiff shoulders finally beginning to shrug. "What is all this to you?"

Azshana hesitated, knowing that there was no correct answer to such a question. Instead, she moved towards him in silence, the clamminess leaving her hands with every step she made.

From outside, the sky rumbled once more, and a gentle pattering on the roof told Azshana that the rain had begun. It served only to strengthen her resolve. Valzul had not much more time to wait.

Using both hands, Azshana set the aged diary on Landal's lap, and she heard as he sucked in his breath through his teeth. His hands roamed over the cover, absorbing it, seemingly surprised by its weight and size. She stepped away, feeling as though she was intruding on something religious.

"I-" Landal paused, his unseeing eyes locked onto the book, his hands growing still over Danlyia's signature. His gaze abruptly broke, turning towards Azshana, his serene expression becoming apprehensive. "I cannot read this. I have never- My eyesight left me before-" His last words came out in a breath, so soft that Azshana nearly missed them. "_Dalah'surfal_…"

Lightning cracked through the sky, flashing the entire room through the round window for a fraction of a second. Rain fell in a torrent before settling to a more reasonable pace.

Landal lowered his voice until he was barely audible over the outside weather. "What did she say?"

The question taken literally, Azshana knew, would take hours to answer. The diary was composed of years upon years of entries, and when she scanned through them, she would often skip months at a time. Summarizing a life is difficult, if not impossible. And, more likely than not, Landal already knew most of it, knew her more intimately than Azshana could ever pretend to.

But then, if that were the case, why would he ask? Was he simply reinforcing his knowledge, or needing an answer to a question that had lingered in his mind for countless years?

"She loved you."

Landal's eyes squeezed shut, his breaths becoming long and steady. With his free hand, he swept away a few silver strands of hair and cradled his forehead. His entire body seemed to visibly slacken, as though in relief.

It was another moment before he spoke again. "Your friend, who needs the antidote," said Landal quietly. His eyes had reopened, and seemed to have regained some of their old luster. "Is he a Tauren?"

Azshana found that she had trouble speaking. "A Troll."

The older Night-Elf's jaw tightened. "Even Elune would be tested." His hand, fumbling slightly, opened a drawer within the table stand. Wordlessly, he drew a vial and a stiletto, offering both to Azshana.

"I do this not for Deephoof," said Landal. "What I am doing, I am doing because Danlyia would have wished me to. She…cared for many."

"In the vial is your antidote," he continued as Azshana accepted it from his hand. "In these lands, in these times, it is best to have a surplus of supplies."

Azshana's eyes drifted to the dagger, its silver hilt and blade clearly carrying a touch of intricate Night-Elf design with various engravings running along the grip. Two separate curling vines formed the small guard at the base of the blade. It seemed to be ceremonial, but the wear along the blade's edge indicated that the weapon had seen actual combat.

"Take it," Landal said forcefully. He pressed the hilt into the palm of her hand, then wrapped her fingers around the grip. "Keep it near you. Never leave it!"

Azshana's grasp remained loose, not entirely willing to accept the stiletto. "Whose is this?"

"Danlyia's," he answered. "It's a virgin blade, never having cut through Orc flesh. I had it crafted with great care, and its bite will be deep."

Landal clasped his hand over hers, and Azshana could almost feel a heat emanating from the hilt. "Trolls are treacherous. Don't forget that warning when the time comes."

Azshana drew back, taking the dagger, turning it over in her hands. It was strangely heavy - much heavier than the daggers she had used before.

"He will never, I will never," Azshana said. "He had many opportunities to take my life, but he didn't."

"Is that so?" Landal said, as though addressing someone who was particularly naïve. "Then keep Danlyia's blade bloodless. I think that will be more difficult than you believe."

Azshana found it difficult not to speak on Valzul's behalf, to tell Landal her story. She knew it would not matter. He was too firmly ingrained in his hatred to change. Somewhere, somehow hatred had become a comfortable emotion for him - too comfortable to leave.

"I must go."

"Before you do-" Landal spoke suddenly and with emphasis, as though he wanted to ensure that Azshana understood. "My request in exchange for the antidote is this: if you are betrayed by the Troll, bury the dagger beside Danlyia's grave near Darkshore."

"And when I'm not?"

Landal's mouth turned briefly into a slight grin, though it quickly faded. "If, in a year, you are not…return it to me. _Ande'thoras-ethil_, Azshana."

"_Ande'thoras-ethil_," Azshana whispered, and, as quickly as she came, was gone.

**(A/N: This chapter may have seemed short - but that's due largely to that fact that this was once part of one monster of a chapter that I was forced to split up after it was shaping up to be 10k words long (while I try to keep a chapter cap at around 6k to keep it digestible). **

**The next chapter should be out later this week or next week, at the latest. It contains several parts that I think readers have been waiting for - so it'll be worth it (probably!))**


	12. When Lightning Strikes Twice

_Shana_, Valzul tried to say, though he found that he was unable to speak. His tongue and throat were numb, his lips dry despite the rain that poured down over the forest in vast sheets.

He lay huddled in the shadow of a bolder, staying mostly dry, but unable to shake the fever that made his skull feel like it was packed with muck. Unlike before, there was no pain as the poison worked its way through his body, though the experience was surreal. Valzul could almost feel it run through his veins and arteries like a tiny vine, tangling itself around his brain, slowly strangling him.

He barely felt in control of his own body. His movements were slow and sluggish, and his muscles protested with every effort. The entire world seemed to move and wave as though he were in a ship on a violent ocean, and several times in the past few hours he had become sick from the dizziness that was plaguing his mind. Nothing was right, and Valzul wondered if it was the poison or the simple act of dying that was making him feel this way.

_Shana_, he called again, or thought he did. Thoughts and reality seemed to slur together until he was unable to distinguish between the two.

As though called, a figure appeared. A tall, slender outline that gained violet skin and hair as she came closer into view. Through the haze that blurred his vision, Valzul saw a flash of silver on her side, and a vial in her hand. Rain poured over her, soaking her clothes and hair, a thin mist clouding many of her features, yet still he recognized her.

He wanted to reach out, and, to his surprise, he did. His arm stretched out into the rain, before falling weakly into the mud. He left it there, not caring, feeling a warmth spreading through him as she knelt by his side.

"Relax, Valzul," she said, her voice sounding distant. Gently, she lifted his hand from the mud and crossed it over his chest. He laid back, suddenly feeling quite tired.

Azshana's glowing silver eyes were all that Valzul saw against a rapidly dimming background. He felt her hands press him down, as though to keep him still.

"Shana-" he heard himself say.

"Don't speak," Azshana whispered. "Drink…"

Valzul felt something cold being pressed against his lips, and a warm liquid filling his mouth. It tasted foul, yet he drank it greedily, feeling it settle bitterly in his stomach. Valzul felt as though he was going to be sick.

Unlike his vision, Azshana's voice sounded somehow clear. "It's an antidote. You must keep it down."

The liquid felt as though it were boiling within him. He heaved dryly, Azshana clinging onto his trembling shoulders as he struggled with his own body. Just as quickly, he felt the antidote spread through him like fire, searing the areas where the poison was deeply entrenched.

It could not have been more than a minute, but to Valzul it seemed like hours. He had used many potions in his life, some more dangerous than others, but he had never had such a violent reaction. The antidote just burned as it went through him, indiscriminately neutralizing anything it deemed to be foreign.

Azshana's arms wrapped tightly around him as he shuddered, the sense of vertigo beginning to leave him with the pain. With his returning strength, Valzul moved and wrapped his free arm around her, inadvertently smearing her with mud.

He said nothing, riding out the last shivers of burning as the rain fell over them, little rivulets of water running around them. Lightning flashed and the sky rumbled ominously as though trying to disturb the two creatures below it.

Valzul was not cold. Even as the last of the antidote's heat died away from him, the warmth from Azshana was more than enough to eclipse the biting wind and rain that swirled around them.

He parted from her slightly, wanting just to look at her. She looked strange, attractive in an exotic kind of way. Had he been at home in Sen'jin, and had looked objectively at her, he would have thought the lack of tusks and small nose as bizarre. Her hair, so wet and matted it was almost black, was streaked with bits of leaves and mud from her rush to return to him. Her silver eyes, however, retained their silver luminosity, standing out sharply from the rain and surrounding darkness.

Valzul tilted his head towards her, pausing to judge her reaction. For a second, Azshana regarded him quizzically, before realization dawned on her and she moved slightly to him.

It was the only invitation that Valzul was looking for. Gently, attempting to keep his tusks from poking her, and moving his head so that his nose would not obstruct him, he pressed his lips against hers. The rain had made her lips cold, and Valzul reflected how different she felt and tasted compared to his former partners.

The kiss lasted no more than a few seconds, yet after they parted Valzul's heart pounded at the implications of what he had just done. Trolls had special punishments for such an offense - Valzul fleetingly wondered if Thrall had banned hexing along with executions.

Lightning cracked across the sky, and for a moment Valzul could see that Azshana wore the same apprehensive expression that he did. What had he done?

Rain began to fall in earnest - soaking them both. From above, the pregnant sky seemed to laugh through a roll of thunder.

"We- we should go," said Azshana, awkwardly getting to her feet. The wind had tore at her hair, throwing it partially over her face. "I'll come with you, but then-" She stopped, not finishing the sentence. Not wanting to finish the sentence.

"But den you gotta go," Valzul finished for her. The warmth had left him, and once more he felt a chill that had little to do with the rain and wind.

Valzul stood up with little trouble, his coordination returning, and stared eastward, into the forest, and then up into the sky. He could not look at her.

"Let's get movin' den," said Valzul, his voice carrying a strength that he did not quite feel. "Da sentinels won't see too well in dis rain."

Azshana and Valzul walked through Ashenvale in near silence, tension laying thick between them. Valzul felt compelled not to speak. He had much to say - much that he _wanted_ to say - but knew that it was all irrelevant. The final farewell was approaching, and somehow it felt wrong.

He was not sure what he had originally expected. He had searched for her in the hopes of finally putting his mind and conscience to rest, but that had not happened.

Valzul thrust his way through the damp trees, ignoring the dead and wet leaves that clung to him as he continued to press forward. Azshana, he knew, what somewhere behind him - though he could not bring himself to check. She too must have realized the inherent impossibility of such pairing.

Valzul forced himself not to dwell on it. He had been foolish to listen to Selfa - he would have been best off if he had simply gone with Zeenjen to a new assignment. All things fade with time, and women were no exception.

The forest was becoming more foreboding as they progressed, and Valzul was not certain if it had been the same path they had originally followed. The darkness and rain made it difficult to tell, with the newly formed steams and puddles camouflaging all signs of footprints.

Valzul glanced furtively towards the forest, certain that more than once he had seen movement in the foliage. It had been barely noticeable - a slight rustling of leaves, a disturbance of a tree branch - yet it went against the wind and rain. The hair on his neck stiffened, and instinctively he clenched his fist.

Azshana seemed to have noticed the same. Her hand had wandered to the stiletto on her side, and nervously she stared into the forest that surrounded her.

A bolt of lightning lit the forest, and for an instant Valzul caught the outline of a figure crouched in the brush. Just as quickly, the figure vanished - leaving Valzul gripping his hand axe, standing protectively by Azshana as they passed through the forest.

There were rumors of worgen in Ashenvale, he knew, but Valzul was also aware that they were deep in sentinel territory. If it were an animal that was stalking them, they would likely have already been attacked. Elves, however, tended to be more methodical.

Seeing a particular dense thicket ahead, Valzul hesitated, placing his arm in front of Azshana to still her. He squinted as peered through the curtain of rain, seeing little more than vague shapes among the trees and bushes that seemed to rise up like a wall no more than ten yards ahead of them. It was the ideal spot for an ambush, with low visibility and brush obstructing their movement.

"Who be out dere!" Valzul demanded, his voice rising above the howling wind.

For a moment, only the rain answered, seeming to thin briefly before pounding down once more with renewed force. Valzul could barely see, having to cover his eyes with his hand to keep the rain from blurring his vision.

Finally, a light, feminine voice called over the wind, though Valzul was not fool enough to think the words were friendly. "_Ana'theras Doran_."

_Sentinels_. The word itself evoked all kinds of ancestral fears within him, knowing that he was in _their_ territory, and in no way prepared for a fight. How many could there be?

"_Fandu-dath-belore_?" Azshana asked. Valzul glanced at her, knowing the position he was putting her in, his mind racing with how this exchange could possibly end peacefully.

An Elf in full sentinel regalia stepped out from the forest, her ash-white hair soaked, a drawn bow in her hands. She stared suspiciously between Valzul and Azshana, though she aimed squarely for the Troll. "_Gala-Fandu_."

Azshana spoke in a hurried string of Darnassian that Valzul could neither distinguish or understand. Her tone, however, suggested she was desperately attempting to keep the sentinel from killing the Troll on sight.

Valzul scarcely breathed. His eyes stayed on the sentinel's right hand, knowing that at any moment the Elf could loose the bow and that the arrow would plunge through his chest before he could even react. His grip on his axe tightened as his eyes strayed to briefly search the surrounding forest. Sentinels never traveled alone.

"_Zala-esla Andora'nebus_," the sentinel said, sounding as though she were spitting the words. Rain ran down her plated spaulders, water dripped from her bowstring.

Azshana began to protest. "_Zala_-"

"A Troll!" the sentinel argued suddenly in Common. Valzul tensed - waiting for one opening to hurl his hand axe. There was no readily available cover, and a distraction would be their only chance if the exchange turned violent.

"He was lost - not involved with the Warsong-"

"_Asala'mel_, _falore,_" the sentinel called aloud, evidently directed to her partner who remained in the forest.

Returning her attention to Azshana, the sentinel continued, her voice laced with virulence. "Are you naïve? He is part of the Warsong infestation - have you no shame?"

"I am from Sen'jen in Durotar," Valzul said defensively. "Dis is da first time I've even been in Ashenvale-"

"Speak not another word, Troll," the sentinel warned, drawing her arrow a bit further back. Her silver eyes seemed to darken as she regarded Valzul with utmost scorn. "Drop your weapons."

Valzul's nostrils flared. He was not about to leave himself defenseless to this arrogant sentinel. He stared back at her as though issuing a challenge

Nearby, Azshana watched him, her eyes pleading, seeming to say, _Please, just do it_.

"_Ash U'phol_! Do you wish to die?"

Valzul hesitated again, half considering what would happen if he attempted to attack and flee. While he may escape, Azshana would invariably have to return to her fellow Elves. If any sentinels were able to return to report what happened, her life would be ruined.

Reluctantly, his grasp slackened, and his axe fell heavily into the mud pool that was gathering around his feet. Drawing his other axe, he did the same so that both laid at his feet, half sunk into the ground. Rain swirling around him, he stepped backwards, bowing to his fate.

The sentinel nodded curtly before calling out again to her partner. There was no response.

More thunder. More rain. Branches snapped from trees as another fierce wind swept over them. Valzul's feet were beginning to sink into the thick mud, and this combined with the wind made it difficult for him to remain steady. A light mist was beginning to cloud the forest, turning the sentinel into little more than a shining blur.

"_Falore_?" The sentinel's grip on her bow lessened as she risked turning around to peer into the forest. There was still no response. She quickly returned her attention to Valzul, though this time the confusion was apparent in her eyes.

Something was amiss. He looked to Azshana for explanation, but she simply stared ahead with the same nervous expression that the sentinel wore.

"_Falore_!"

Only thunder answered her, dim light sparking from beneath the dark clouds. Valzul wished he had kept his axes, and was tempted to retrieve them. However, the sentinel seemed on edge, and he dared not to even move.

Then, from over the sentinel's shoulder, Valzul saw movement. It was not the wind - it could not be. A shape took form, and for a moment he thought it was another sentinel, who had finally answered her sister's call. The figure was far too short, however, and looked hunched, with a slow, almost methodical gait.

Valzul could see the figure's outline more clearly as it approached, though the sheets of rain limited much detail. The arms were apart, with something dangling from its left hand, and gripping a weapon with its right. Eyes glowed, but not in the way of the Elves. They were small and piercing - a sharp contrast against the gray rain.

A gust of wind carried a scent like rot to his nose, and he reflexively cringed.

The sentinel was entirely unaware - her focus concentrated on the Troll before her. The howling wind masked the sound of the figure's approach, and she seemed little concerned with guarding her back.

"Valzul-" Azshana whispered, and he turned to see her visibly tense beside him.

The sentinel spoke again - an angry hiss of Darnassian obviously intended for Azshana. Then, in Common, she added, "Do not speak again."

The figure was moving with a patient speed, not seeming to be rushed. Soon he left the enveloping canopy of the trees, and a flash of lightning imposed a face on the figure that sent a bolt of shock down Valzul's spine.

_Edwed_. The name was extinct, almost forgotten with his and Azshana's haste to Ashenvale. Yet he was there, approaching them once more, rain drenching his rugged and torn clothes, blood smeared over his hands and blade. His face was barely recognizable, with some flesh missing and some re-grown, but what disturbed him the most was that Edward walked while wearing a wide, maddening grin.

Valzul's eyes drifted downwards and he was repulsed to see that the object that he had seen dangling from Edward's hand was the severed head of a Night Elf, her drained face contorted into a confused mixture of shock and fear. His boned hands clenched her olive hair like claws, the bloody stump trailing along the ground, leaving muddy pools of gore in its wake. Valzul had a terrible feeling that the head belonged to the sentinel's partner, who she had been calling for in vain only a few moments ago.

Suddenly, Edward stopped, tilting his head slightly as he gazed at Valzul, then at the still-oblivious sentinel who stood several yards from him. His grin split further, as though finding the situation hilarious, and almost casually he swung the Elf's head forward, letting it roll and finally settle in a puddle - the glow in her eyes extinguished as she stared blankly into the sky.

Azshana tried to speak. _"Ana-_"

The sentinel cut her off with an angry hiss, once more drawing her bow, as though with dire warning.

Conflicting emotions raced through Valzul's mind as he nervously looked between Edward and the sentinel, hastily weighing his options in a sort of crude calculation of survival.

For a moment, no one moved. Azshana stood motionless nearby, as though considering the same thoughts as Valzul. The sentinel's eyes had not left Valzul, her bow taut, seeming to assume her partner was only temporarily occupied. Not much further in the background was Edward, turning his rusted sword over and over in his hands.

Lightning cracked, and it was Valzul who moved first. Seeing the sentinel turn fleetingly to glance at the bolt, Valzul crouched, scooping his axes from the mud, before diving to the left. With a quick shriek, the sentinel loosed her arrow, though the momentary distraction combined with the wind and rain sent the missile awry into a tree, driving halfway into the trunk. He scampered to his feet, having trouble keeping a good footing, and raised his axes in a challenge. As though in answer, the sentinel tossed away her bow, steel flashing as a shortsword appeared in her hand.

From the corner of his eye, Valzul watched as Edward advanced upon Azshana. Her stiletto drawn, she did not back away, though her dagger seemed hardly a match for the Forsaken's sword. She thrust forward, nearly driving her dagger into the side of Edward's thigh, but he leapt back. Pausing, he watched her, not yet making an attack.

Presently, Valzul turned his attention back to the sentinel, wanting to knock her down quickly so that he could aid Azshana against Edward. Hearing the commotion behind her, the sentinel turned briefly around, her eyes widening as she saw Edward and then her partner's head.

"Ambush!" she cried out in Common, taking a horn from her side and blowing deeply into it. The sound resonated through the forest, driving through the trees and eclipsing the intense rain and wind.

"_Ana'duna thera_!"

The sentinel charged Valzul with her sword raised, slashing it ferociously through the air, raindrops skimming along the metal and flying in an arc with every swing.

Valzul could do little but dodge her attacks while retreating, his axes being poor weapons against an opponent wielding a sword. It was difficult to deflect blows with the hand axes, and he found himself more often than not simply ducking rather than attempting to match his blade against hers.

The sentinel was enraged, however, and becoming reckless. As her initial flurry of attacks began to slow, she left herself more and more open to attack. Feigning weakness, Valzul fed into her overconfidence, watching as the sentinel became less concerned with defense and more with skewering him into two.

Azshana held herself well against Edward, using her barefoot traction as an advantage on the slick ground to outmaneuver him. The frustration was evident in Edward's expression, his wide attacks betraying that he simply wanted to get close enough to overpower her - yet she would not allow it.

Valzul, for his part, was gaining an edge against the sentinel. She had eased herself into a pattern, and, after a few more swings, he was going to exploit her oversight. Seeing her sword cut horizontally through the air, he lashed out on her vulnerable right side. At the last moment, however, his sudden shift in weight made his foot slide into the muck, making his swing go wide and slow. The sentinel had more than enough time to react, neatly parrying his attack.

Valzul scrambled to recover, cursing his waste of his opportunity. The sentinel would not make such a mistake again, and he feared the consequences of spending too much time dealing with the Elf while Edward and Azshana dueled each other.

The sentinel made a sudden thrust forward, sending Valzul to the ground as he attempted to sidestep the attack, instead losing his footing and stumbling to his knees. Realizing the precariousness of his situation, he whirled around violently, hurling an axe at his opponent only to have it miss her head by inches. It fell spinning onto the ground, skipping repeatedly before finally splashing into a shallow rivulet.

Valzul felt his heart sink, feebly raising his remaining axe, watching as the sentinel's eyes lit up with victory. Fending her off was difficult with both his weapons - it would be close to impossible with one. From behind the sentinel, he saw Azshana turn and gasp.

His axe still raised, Valzul climbed to his feet while scooting backwards, sweat gathering on his forehead and neck despite the cold.

The sentinel brought her sword above her head and swung it vertically - hard. Valzul deflected it with his axe, though the tip of the blade still cut his hand. Blood flowed freely over his axe handle, yet he scarcely noticed it.

The sentinel raised it again and attacked in the same manner. She was not even trying. Valzul's knees buckled as his axe absorbed the powerful blow.

Though Valzul was barely watching, Azshana struck out with her stiletto again. As Edward parried, she struck out her leg, sending him sprawling onto the ground as his legs were kicked out from under him. Wasting no time, she turned once more to Valzul, and for a moment he met her eyes as warded off yet another attack. Blood was running down his arm in a thickness that was matched only by the rain.

The sentinel did not even notice Azshana's approach from the back. Her overconfidence and anger brimmed, content with wielding her sword like a mace, hammering the Troll again and again, knowing that she had already won.

Azshana's eyes locked onto her stiletto as she raised it into the air, directly over the sentinel's back. The blade gleamed, reflecting the breaks of thunder from overhead, dripping clean water from its tip. The wind slowed and grew still, as though in anticipation.

Valzul sucked in a breath, his axe lowering slightly as his focus left his opponent and fell upon Azshana, the realization of what she was about to do striking more thoroughly than any of the bolts of lightning. The sentinel, seeing his distraction, paused with uncertainty, though it was already too late.

With no hesitation, Azshana's stiletto plunged into her fellow Night-Elf's back, driving it all the way to the hilt. The sentinel's expression twisted with pain, her sword springing from her grip as she desperately tried to turn.

Azshana drew back her dagger, the clean blade now smeared entirely with blood; shock and fear crossing her face in waves. She took a hesitant step backwards, staring at her dagger as though not completely believing what had just occurred. Even the rain seemed to hesitate, the surrounding air beginning to grow thin.

Valzul did not react immediately. He watched as the sentinel stumbled to her knees, her head shaking, looking up at Azshana with disbelief. She glanced listlessly around, as though searching for her sword.

Axe in hand, Valzul stepped behind her. Drawing his axe back, he cleaved sideways, the edge of his axe striking the back of her head and sending her facedown into the mud.

His attention returned to Azshana. She stood apart from him, alone, the stiletto hanging loosely in her grip. "Elune forgive me," she whispered.

Valzul placed his hand on her shoulder, not sure what to say. She had killed one of her own kind - and a sentinel, no less. What was there to say? "Shana?"

No answer. Then, abruptly, she wrapped her arms around him and set her head in the crook of his neck, her entire body shaking. He said nothing more, holding her, trying to digest what he had just seen.

"I should thank you for what you did to me in the Barrens," rasped a voice from behind Valzul. He tensed and whirled, releasing Azshana, seeing Edward standing near where the sentinel had fallen. Even from there, he could smell the rot that seemed to emanate from the Forsaken. "If it were not for you, I would not be able to have properly been able to appreciate your Elf's predicament."

Edward knelt by the corpse, dipping his fingers in the gaping crack that Valzul had made with his axe in the Elf's skull. He straightened again before bringing his bloody hand to his mouth and licking each finger.

Valzul, his eyes never leaving Edward, bent to retrieve the axe he had lost earlier. "What be your problem? Dere's nothing' dat I owe you or anyone else."

"Owe?" Edward chewed the word, as though tasting it. "That is so very relative."

"I told ya before, Edwed. Walk away, but dis time don' come back."

"You're in no position to tell me anything, Troll," Edward's grin faded, his expression turning contemptuous. His emotions seemed exaggerated, as with someone who was inexperienced with managing them. "Especially as a fugitive."

Valzul lost his interest in words. He advanced on Edward's right side, watching as Azshana went to his left. She was still visibly shaken, yet her stiletto remained firmly in her grip.

Edward did not seem particularly perturbed that he was outnumbered. Rolling the hilt of his sword between his hands, a grin appeared on his face that had little to do with mirth. "Both of you? I was hoping to be able to gut each of you separately, and then afterwards that Tauren…"

Valzul's axe was a flash through the air, stopped only as Edward's sword intercepted it, sending its path awry.

"You'll need to do better than that," said Edward dryly. "Have you even fought in real combat before?"

A deep horn called through the forest in a resonating tone - far louder than the rolls of thunder. It was all too similar to the call made by the sentinel, and sounded dangerously close.

"Sentinels!" Azshana hissed. "They're responding to her call - they're coming-"

Valzul, heedless, lashed out again, deftly dodging Edward's counterattack after his strike was parried. Heat rushed into his head, adrenaline beginning to enter his bloodstream. Azshana moved to position herself behind Edward, but the Forsaken countered her by backing away, circling Valzul to keep himself from being caught between them.

"Valzul-" Azshana urged, looking fearfully into the forest.

He was only partially aware of Azshana, knowing in the back of his mind that they would be swarmed by sentinels at any moment, yet unwilling to leave Edward alive.

Seeing an opening, Valzul swung, this time striking the sword's guard. Edward, turning his weapon, managed to cut the Troll along the forearm before he could safely withdraw. His arm stinging, Valzul spat onto the ground.

"Valzul!"

Edward swung wildly to his right, warding off Azshana, whose dagger proved to be too short to become much of a threat. With Edward's side exposed, Valzul attacked with both axes. Edward, recovering, managed to deflect Valzul's left axe, but could not stop his right, which struck his deeply into his shoulder, cutting halfway through the bone. Edward groaned, raising his sword defensively as his damaged arm slouched.

The horn blew once more, as though trying to entice an answer. Valzul hesitated, realizing the horn's meaning, knowing that sentinels could emerge at any moment. He felt Azshana's hand on his arm, gently pulling, urging him.

Valzul's teeth clenched as he stared at Edward. The Forsaken's arm was limp, his guard weak, yet he stood there in challenge. A bit more time, and Edward would be finished.

However, there was no time. Edward, stepping off to the side, sensed it too.

"Next time I see you," Valzul said in a low voice. "I'm gonna bury you."

"Bury me?" Edward rasped, seeming amused. "That's already been tried."

Valzul followed Azshana through the forest, their feet splashing through the shallow swamps that were forming from the excess of water. Under the tree canopies, the rain gather on leaves and fell in great gobs on their heads. They slid through the foliage easily, Azshana evidently trying to take them away from the well-used paths that wound through the Ashenvale forest.

Valzul was not sure where they were going - and, after several minutes, he did not think Azshana knew either. They just seemed to press forward endlessly, the moon and stars too hidden to guide them, no significant landmarks that he recognized.

Behind them, he heard another, stronger horn call. Unlike the others, it carried a mournful tone, and Valzul suspected that the trailing Elves had finally found their companions in the forest. He wondered if they had caught Edward.

"Shana-" he whispered.

She did not reply, still running at full speed through the foliage. The wounds on Valzul's arm still bled freely, and he needed a moment to patch them properly.

Branches and twigs slapped him across the face as he leapt through a thicket after Azshana, who was now several paces ahead. Her agility and familiarity of the terrain gave her an advantage here, and it took everything he had simply to keep up.

The further they went, the more the land began to change. Thick, lush trees gave way knotted husks with decaying leaves that seemed to cling to the branches only out of desperation. Grass thinned and soon disappeared altogether, leaving only a carpet of dead leaves that crunched as he ran.

The rain had not yet slowed, and the footing remained treacherous as they ran. The wet leaves were mixed with mud, making the ground slick like ice. More than once he stumbled and nearly fell, recovering only at the last moment.

If they were not on the border of Ashenvale, they were near it, and Valzul's mind raced with ideas of where they possibly could be. Azshara was too far to the east, and Darkshore beyond Astranaar to the west. It had to be Felwood.

"Shana!" Valzul called again. Felwood was one of the last places he wanted to be in at this point. Even he had heard of the corruption that had seeped through the valley, strangling and twisting the life there into shadows of what they had been. Fel pools and demon camps peppered the landscape, making traveling hazardous - much less spending the night there.

He had nearly caught up with her when she stopped suddenly, seeming to be on the edge of some steep hill. Valzul, less than a step behind, slid through the mud, crashing into her back and sending both tumbling over the brink.

For a brief, flash of a moment, Valzul could see the White Lady resting on a bed of stars before falling downward, tumbling through water streams and smooth rock. He reached blindly for roots, branches - anything - to grab hold of as he rolled, yet nothing stopped or even slowed him.

Pain spiked like needles through random parts of his body. Between the dark and the rain, he saw no base of the hill.

Abruptly, the ground leveled, yet his body did not stop. He continued to roll violently, stopping only after hitting a jutting rock. The back of his head smashed against the hard surface, sending a shockwave of pain, dizzying him. His vision lacking focus, he turned his head to see Azshana laying motionless nearby. Far off, a flicking orange light warned him of a fire, or perhaps a torch. It was difficult to tell.

Looking up, seeing the rain fall unabatedly, was the last thing Valzul saw before losing consciousness.


	13. The Truthseer

_I'm gonna keel dat bastard._

To say Zeenjen was furious would be an understatement. He was absolutely livid. Word had come to him that his brother, Valzul, was a fugitive accused of murder, and now the Orc command sent an inspector to personally perform the investigation.

No doubt they wanted to examine the depth of the treachery, and whether such things were…contagious.

"Edwed, right?" Zeenjen repeated, needing to hear it again. "It was Edwed who told ya my brother did it?"

Inspector Gallek nodded, his expression unreadable, a sheaf of paper set discretely to his side for note-taking.

_Dat mon crossed da wrong Troll._

"I realize that you are a respected officer of the Horde," continued Gallek. "But I must know: have you ever performed cannibalism in any form? Have you eaten fallen enemies?"

Zeenjen's lips drew back into a snarl. Was this truly how distrusted he had become? "Nevah in my life have I done dat. Da Darkspear renounced dat a long time ago, when Thrall asked 'em to. Ya won' find a Troll in dis village dat eats his enemy."

"And your brother-"

"He's nevah done dat either," Zeenjen snapped. He could scarcely believe this was happening. His entire career - the culmination of the last twenty years of his life - was in jeopardy. Did Valzul even realize what he had done?

"I see," Gallek said evenly, seeming to be aware he was treading on scorpid tails. "Have you known Valzul-"

"Let me tell ya 'bout Valzul," Zeenjen said, cutting Gallek off. "Dere be few Trolls more loyal to Thrall dan him. I dunno what you be tryin' to imply, but whatever you be hearin' is wrong. Edwed is a liar. Ya even know why he's been out here in da middle of nowhere?"

Zeenjen stopped himself. As tempting as it was to tell Gallek the truth concerning Edward, it was secret information that was known only to the relevant officers. Originally, Edward had been a sort of ambassador from Lordaeron, officially part of an exchange where the Forsaken could learn warfare tactics from their Orc allies. It had been a benevolent gesture on the part of Thrall - an attempt to strengthen their relations with the Forsaken.

It had soon become clear that Edward was interested in more than simple warfare tactics. After certain coded documents were sent back to Lordaeron, the Orc command turned suspicious. A month later, agents reported that the leaking of several classified documents to Lordaeron had been traced back to Edward.

Simply executing Edward was not an option. Doing so would damage their relations with not only the Forsaken, but with the Tauren and Trolls as well, who would interpret the act as a mark of Orc aggression.

Orc command finally decided to simply send Edward somewhere where he could do the least harm. Backwater Feralas, they decided, would be sufficiently distant from any sensitive information.

Zeenjen should not have been surprised that he had been betrayed by a spy. However, he had believed that he had gained a measure of control over Edward - a way to use him for personal advancement.

How mistaken he realized he had been.

"When have you last seen Valzul?" Gallek asked, persistent.

"Been a bit," said Zeenjen vaguely. "A week or more."

The inspector scribbled something on his sheaf. "And Edward?"

Zeenjen's eyes narrowed. "A long while. A month or so."

"Do you know of any reason for him going to Ashenvale?"

Zeenjen shook his head, though internally his entire mind was bent on determining where Edward would have gone. _Why Ashenvale?_

He feigned disinterest. "Nah mon, no idea."

"As his officer," continued Gallek. "Wouldn't that be relevant to you?"

"I am his officer, not his mothah," Zeenjen said, half-lying. "What Edwed does when on leave is his business. If he don' show for da patrol in a week, den it's desertion, and _den _it be my business."

The inspector regarded him with a strange sort of stare, that, despite his anger, made Zeenjen distinctly uncomfortable. "What reason do you have not to trust Edward?"

"He's a Forsaken. Ya think ya can trust any of dem?"

"That's not an answer."

"Ya still be talking to an officer of da Horde, so don' be a fool when ya address me," Zeenjen said, the hairs on his neck bristling. "I know enough about Edwed to know dat he's a liar. More dan dat, he's a thief, and a killer."

The inspector seemed to consider Zeenjen's answer before beginning to roll up his note sheaf, placing it in the satchel on his side. The Troll relaxed visibly, feeling relieved at the end of what felt like an intense interrogation.

Zeenjen watched as Gallek got to his feet, exchanging a brief farewell before leaving. There was little that was friendly about it; the inspector clearly thinking that information was being withheld, and Zeenjen believing that he had told too much.

After Gallek was gone, Zeenjen entered the second part of his hut. He had kept Father in the back, sitting on an ancient chair that he had never left, not wanting to risk him overhearing what had occurred with Valzul.

"Forgive me, fathah," Zeenjen said, bowing his head slightly before crossing to the other side of the room - to the weapon rack.

He could barely look at the elder Troll anymore. Father was not the Troll that he used to be. Gray hair sprouted from odd places on his head, behind his ears. A wet stain on his clothes marked where drool had fallen from between his two yellowed tusks. His eyes, staring ever forward, were covered with a thin layer of film, making him look blind - though, on some level, Zeenjen figured he might as well be.

Father had been a rock for him and Valzul in uncertain times. Fate had chosen to be cruel, however, and switched their roles late in life. When Father had been ambushed - attacked by common Centaur - he had been struck on the head, turning him feeble. He could not speak, could make no signs, and all basic functions such as eating and defecating had to be handled by his sons.

Despite Father being invalid, Zeenjen believed that a part of him was still alive - seeing and understand and judging. Father would swell with pride when he saw achievement, and be wrathful when witnessing failure.

"It wasn't enough, Fathah," said Zeenjen, one hand on the rail of the rack. He turned to face the elder Troll, trying to make eye contact but failing. "Ya know I've tried to bring dis family up. Ya've seen it." He paused, as though expecting a response.

Father's shallow, trailing wheeze was the only answer.

"I'm close, I swear it," Zeenjen continued, searching for approval somewhere in Father's rheumy eyes. "Only maybe another year an' I'll be promoted an' have a place in Orgrimmar."

Satisfied, he lifted a heavy mace from the weapon rack, feeling its weight in his hands. It was lighter than he remembered. Brushing away the thin layer of dust, he paused to admire the obvious care that had been taken with it. The iron flanges on its head were still sharp and pronounced - not dull like others of its age would have become. The shaft was designed simply with little flair - a ribbed grip and spiked pommel the only ornament on an otherwise plain weapon. The mace had been designed with practicality in mind, and not with the frill and excess that seemed to dominate more modern Horde weaponry.

"Edwed was a mistake," Zeenjen said soberly. "A mistake dat I regret now. But I need tah fix it, Fathah, and keep Val from doin' anything more dat could harm us."

Father coughed - a rough, wrenching sound that made it sound as though he were choking, or trying to clear his throat. His head bowing, he continued hoarsely for several seconds as Zeenjen watched in mixed disbelief. He had never seen such a reaction before.

"Fathah?"

The sound ended abruptly with a sigh. The aged Troll's shoulders sagged, the wheeze more laborious, as though in surrender.

"Don' worry, dis mace won' leave my sight," said Zeenjen. "I'll have it back at your side soon. Dere's just one neck it needs tah crack."

Gently, he lifted Father's head and set it to rest against the back of his chair. Cleaning the stale drool from his chin with a piece of linen, Zeenjen folded it and set it on Father's lap. Dipping another cloth in a small dish of warm water, he wiped the other Troll's face and brittle tusks, trying vainly to return them to their original ivory state.

"I'll be gone for a bit, maybe a week," said Zeenjen as he finished. "Selfa will care for you." Thinking he saw movement in Father's film-covered eyes, he froze, setting aside the cloth only after the pupils remained locked forward for a full minute.

He pitied Father, hating the feeling yet having it anyway. Valzul had been too young to remember properly, yet Zeenjen's memory remained clear. To a degree, he resented his brother for it - for how easily he could spend weeks away from home on some meaningless journey.

Zeenjen had taken responsibility from a young age due to necessity, leaving a permanent imprint on him. This imprint flowered naturally, growing as he ascended the ranks of the Horde. It had been a difficult life, but, in Zeenjen's view, he had accepted it, while Valzul had fled from it.

Tapping his forehead against Father's in farewell, Zeenjen stepped away. "Goodbye, Fathah."

He took the mace along with a light amount of supplies, knowing that he could purchase more in Ashenvale if he needed. Zeenjen had no intention of making it an extended journey. What Edward was trying to do…what he had _done_ was unforgivable, and deserved only a single response.

_Time tah make things right_, Zeenjen told himself, stepping into the Durotar sun. His hand ran over the smooth metal handle of the mace before putting it away. The flange could quite literally shatter a skull - and would do so one last time.

_Nah, not just one,_ he thought bitterly. The Elf - the source of the trouble - still lived, probably running through Azeroth with Valzul. This was intolerable. He could not imagine attempting to explain his brother's actions to his superiors.

_Gonna be diggin' two graves before dis is over._

OOO

_The air carried the scent of wet leaves, damp earth. An eerie stillness was over Tirisfal Glades - the kind that usually comes only after a heavy rain or storm. Midnight had fallen over their camp - an inky blackness that seemed to pour over the surrounding countryside. _

_He was not concerned as he moved toward the prisoner's tent - two men with spears flanking each side of the open doorway. The man on the right pumped his fist in the air twice - a short salute._

"_The prisoner is within, Sir Edward," the man said crisply._

_He nodded, pleased. He had come far since his rejection from the Silver Hand. Experience - the fruit of an additional ten years - had taught him much, and with it came wealth. A ramshackle mix of commoners and his own personal guard, the men that now surrounded him in this small camp were recruited and trained by him to do what others dared not. _

_Scourge ran rampant through his home forests. Men and women fell victim to Plague, only to rise up once more by some twisted art of magic. Andorhal had fallen into chaos, and the news from Stratholme was dire. What did the fools do? Nothing._

_Their hesitation would be the end of Lordaeron. He would show them how a force _ought_ to be commanded._

_How they mocked him - calling his small army of a hundred men the Peasant's Crusade. They scarcely understood. What did it matter when the Light burned so fervently for him?_

_He entered the tent, finding the prisoner strapped to a chair, his hands bound tightly to a sturdy table in front of him. He was a wretched wisp of a man; thin and hunched with bloodshot eyes and decaying teeth. Dark embroidered robes lined with crimson were stained with unnamable liquids and powders. A necromancer - no doubt a sort of officer in the legion of undeath._

"_What business brings you to Tirisfal?" he said, casually stepping to the side to make it difficult for the prisoner to see him. _

_The necromancer laughed - a hoarse, rattling cough that spilled from his throat. _

_His nose crinkled; the stench of rot from the prisoner's breath so strong that he had to take a step back. Had it not been for the slight color in the skin, he would have believed the necromancer to be a ghoul._

"_Speak now," he warned. "Or you will lose your last chance of mercy."_

"_Mercy?" the necromancer said in an oily voice, as though finding the word trite. More harsh laughter. "You have no idea of the absolutely gorgeous horrors that I've seen - that I've made. You wish to threaten me?'_

_He expected such a reaction. He could not believe that the enemy had been so successful when it was also so fatally predictable. He did not speak, simply staring at the necromancer as he slowly approached from behind. _

"_I do not fear a knight."_

"_And how," he said quietly. "Do you know I am a knight?"_

_The necromancer did not answer - no laughter erupted from his lips. He remained silent, as though in sudden doubt._

"_They call me Sir Edward the Truthseer," he continued. "Yet I am not of the Order."_

"_An appropriate title," said the necromancer, attempting to be mocking, yet his voice falling flat. "What victims has your truth claimed?"_

"_Truth is the gag on which your master will choke."_

_The necromancer sneered. "You can't even begin to imagine - your lives, your Light - everything will whither._

_He looked over the prisoner's veined arm, sunken hands. While the necromancer's power grew, it came with a heavy cost, feeding on its host body like a parasite. "Starting with yourself?"_

"_A small cost," the necromancer said. "You think I lack nobility? What has your knightly nobility garnered you? Even now, you hesitate."_

"_I do not hesitate," he said, setting his hands on the prisoner's shoulders. He felt them become tense with fear. "I am bound to nothing. If you do not give me the truth, then I will take it from you."_

_From his side, he drew a long, curved razor, and let it slide against the necromancer's cheek before finally bringing it to his hands. As though realizing the purpose of the table binds, the necromancer squirmed, yet it did not matter. The rope was taut and tightly bound._

"_I have nothing to tell," said the necromancer. He could feel the perspiration gathering in the man's thin hair, and on his neck._

"_Don't dare to lie to me."_

"_The only lie is the what you tell yourself! You'll die-" The necromancer said, laugher creeping once more into his voice. "No one can deny Him!"_

_He grasped the man's throat with his free hand, not trying to choke him, but simply to restrain. He knew there were simpler ways to extract what he needed. Pain was the language of interrogation, the question not being "What do you know?" but "How much can you withstand?"_

_He let the razor rest on the necromancer's pale skin, the teeth just barely beginning to bite. "Where shall we begin?" he breathed into the necromancer's ear as he slowly began to sink the blade into his hand._

Edward woke with a start, his heart racing inexplicably, experiencing the same presence of fear that he always felt after a dream. Controlling himself, he kept from leaving the chair, resigning himself instead to looking towards the iron furnace that he left burning as he slept. Nothing but glowing embers were left now, leaving him ill at ease. He glanced towards the window, seeing the sprawling camp of Splintertree Post. How long had he slept?

Edward searched for his sword, and, finding it, clutched it tightly. There was nothing in the dream that could have evoked terror - yet why was he struck by fear? It wrapped itself around him like a chill - amplifying ever sound and every shadow a hundredfold.

If there had been any doubts of whether he had been envisioning his previous life, the dream had dispelled them. He had been called by name - the title seeming significant to him somehow, as though a faint echo of himself recognized it.

"Irrelevant," Edward said aloud - unintentionally. Some of the fear dissolved. The dreams did not matter - relics of an unimportant past.

He stood, a craving like hunger gnawing at his gut. The sentinel had satisfied the hunger somewhat, but he desired more. Devouring Thork had given him a strange taste, and now, for the first time in his Undeath, he _wanted_ to eat, as though he needed it.

Flesh provided him with no sustenance beyond patching his broken body, yet he hungered for it. Eating Thork, and then the Elf, had given him an odd sensation. It warmed his chilled body, with blood coursing through unused veins and arteries, and made him feel alive.

And, experiencing such disturbing dreams, he needed to obtain that feeling of life. The addiction was undeniable.

Edward reigned in his need, still able to exercise control over his urges. Satisfying himself was secondary to finding Valzul. The Troll had once more escaped - and this time there was little evidence for where he was heading.

With an iron poker, Edward stirred the embers in the furnace, provoking long tongues of flame. He began to consider the Azshana - the Elf - the obvious tie that she had with Valzul. Perhaps it was better to consider the two to be a pair rather than separate individuals.

Edward did not understand them. What were Azshana and Valzuls' motivations? What made the Elf drive a dagger into a sentinel's back? What inspired a Troll to release a racial enemy? He searched himself - his fresh store of mortal impulses and emotions - and found no answer.

Were they fundamentally flawed? Edward did not know, and did not particularly care.

There were few places in Azeroth where Horde and Alliance could coexist peacefully - though the peace was usually enforced through numerous goblin bruisers and security. Valzul and Azshana would likely be moving towards a neutral bubble in an unclaimed territory. Given that Valzul was now wanted for murder in the major Horde cities, he would have no other place to go.

Felwood and Winterspring especially were notorious for having little in the way of Horde or Alliance encampments, though this was largely due to the presence of demons and members of the Shadow Council. It would be a gamble for anyone to attempt to pass through those lands by themselves. Would the Troll be desperate enough to do it?

Edward withdrew the poker, tapping the glowing tip twice to shake loose the clinging ash, and then setting it aside. Valzul had no other choice.

There was only one small matter left. Taking a small scroll from his pocket, he briefly unraveled and scanned it. The message had come directly from his superiors in Lordaeron, and had been delivered to him earlier in the evening.

The scroll had not taken long to decode, though he need not have bothered. Edward could have guessed at its contents. The Society was deeply interested in his current movements, giving him specific orders to follow. His mission was becoming compromised - his superiors were being asked questions concerning him by Orc command. He was being told to fall inactive to quell any suspicions.

The scroll crumpled in his hand.

What Lordaeron desired was of no concern to him. Becoming inactive was not an option - not when Valzul was just within his grasp.

The consequences of disobedience were dire, Edward knew. At the very least, he would be disowned and ignored. At worst, Lordaeron would view him as a threat, and it would never be safe for him to return to Tirisfal again. His superiors despised risks, and would not allow him the opportunity to harm Forsaken interests - if he decided to do so.

He would not. For Edward, his service to Lordaeron was as much in the past as his previous mortal life.

Edward tossed the scroll into the furnace and watched it shrivel and burn. Bits of crumpled ash spilled onto the hardwood floor. He turned to the window.

Edward's purpose went beyond Valzul. After the Troll and Elf died, there was much yet to learn, much yet to experience.

Sensations such as pleasure were so addicting. Even though his last kill was an hour ago, he could still taste the Elf's blood on his tongue and feel the warmth in his throat. And Thork - his neck was like a fountain that never stopped. Twice was not satisfactory - Edward needed more.

Flashes of his dream ran through Edward's head, though he could not retain them. It was like trying to hold sand - despite his best efforts, the dream seeped rapidly from his memory.

The visions were vague and confused, coming and going in an instant, leaving Edward with only fleeting impressions. Someone bleeding, screaming and struggling vainly under thick binds. A flash of metal carving deeply into bare skin. More blood, more struggling, this time with an interrogator speaking harshly in the background.

Unlike the rest of the dream, the vision gave Edward no sense of fear. It felt different, as though his subconscious was attempting to satisfy his base wants.

The shapeless memory began to sharpen, the outline of a bound form in a chair appearing. Edward leaned against the wall, trying to recall what little that he could. His breath quickened with anticipation as the figure's mangled hand darkened into a shade of green - another pale hand forcing a razor halfway into the wrist.

The figure's face was next to be defined, with deepset eyes, a long nose, and tusks set on either side of a wide mouth. Valzul - wearing the same arrogant, victorious expression that he had in the Barrens.

Edward recognized and understood, old heat flaring within him. He had been beaten again by the same Troll that surprised him before. He shifted his arm, feeling the broken bone grind in its socket, remembering where Valzul had struck him with an axe.

Valzul had fortune on his side, nothing more.

Fortune invariably went dry.

Felwood was only a short journey away, and what was more - it would prove much easier to search. He would not need to summon the Troll Rinz again. Not even Valzul would be fool enough to leave the roads in Felwood, with its demon-infested pools and fel magic that seeped into and tainted even the trees.

It occurred to Edward that Felwood was dangerous even for him, and it was not unknown for travelers to go missing after venturing into the corrupted forests. Even the Elves dared not to enter it, though it lies right on their borders.

He would not be deterred. If Valzul went to Felwood, then Edward would follow. If Valzul wandered into Outland, Edward would not hesitate. Until both Troll and Elf were dead, he would not stop.

Edward's vision of Valzul served only to bait his taste. Soon, he would catch them. Soon, his vision would be reality.

OOO

"You find strange ways to come under my care, Valzul," rumbled a familiar voice. Valzul's eyes half-opened, having trouble adjusting to the dim light, his neck feeling stiff.

He was resting on a soft makeshift bed that seemed to have been made up of fur and feathers. Dying torches burned faintly from crude wooden sconces, casting light on the rough stone walls. From somewhere he felt a cold draft, and, sitting up, Valzul realized that he was in some sort of cave. The torches flinched under the gust.

Across from him, leaning heavily against the wall was Deephoof. For the first time, Valzul realized how truly old the Tauren was. Deephoof's coarse hair was streaked with gray, and his expression sagged in a way that looked unnatural - as though years upon years of pressure were finally beginning to weigh on him. Beside him was a small, lightly built stool - far too thin to support a Tauren's bulk.

Just behind Deephoof, half covered by shadow, was Azshana. Her arms were wrapped around her legs, and her glowing eyes - the only part of her that he could see clearly - stared intently at him.

"The Timbermaw found you and Azshana far to the south," continued Deephoof. "Further south than even the Emerald Sanctuary. You are lucky they found you - Felwood is home to many creatures, though few are free from corruption."

"Da…Timbermaw?" The name was familiar to Valzul, yet he could not remember from where.

"Yes, you lie now in their central hold," said Deephoof. "You've slept for several days, though I suspect that's partially due to the antidote you so recently ingested. Though naturally wary of outsiders, their shaman was could see that Felwood's taint had not affected you."

Valzul turned in time to see a short, stocky figure step into the weak light of the torches. He was a shaman of some sort, hunched, with fur covering every inch of his body. A necklace of beads and animal bone hung around his neck, and his eyes were lit in a way that betrayed a consciousness not found in the beasts that roamed the forest. In his right hand he grasped a wooden staff, frayed feathers tied to its top. His face and snout were that of a bear, though he did not look feral. He was calm, as though waiting for a sign.

"I remember them carrying us back," Azshana said, speaking for the first time. "They healed us, but…I don't like furbolgs."

"There is nothing to fear from the Timbermaw," Deephoof said. "While the forests and other furbolg tribes succumbed to the Legion's corruption, the Timbermaw retreated safely into their Hold. Demons hold no sway over them."

From behind him, Valzul heard the tapping of wood on rock - the sounds of the shaman slowly limping away. This seemed to placate Azshana considerably, as she unwrapped her legs and moved in front of Deephoof. She had lost some of her color since Ashenvale, her skin paling into a lighter shade of violet.

"I stole from them, in Teldrassil," Azshana said. Her voice quivered, as though she was talking about something she would rather have forgotten. "They almost caught me, but they just…I can't forget what they look like when angry. Their lips pull back into a snarl, and their teeth are like little knives - that's what they really are."

Deephoof gave her a meaningful look, setting a calming hand on her shoulder. "While the Timbermaw receive few visitors, they can understand some Common. Respect this while in their Hold, as you are among friends."

"The Timbermaw elders were pleased when I arrived," Deephoof continued. "Until then, they were unsure of what to do with you."

"You know dem?"

"Somewhat," said Deephoof. "Passing through Timbermaw Hold is necessary to enter Moonglade, unless you wish to fly. As such, druids tend to have strong relations with them."

Deephoof moved across the room, slow even for a Tauren of his age, before continuing. "I had been traveling from Bloodvenom Post, going to Moonglade. It was only fortune that I found you here - though it is strange fortune indeed. I believe this would be the third time that our paths have crossed."

"You're not da only one whose path I've been crossing," said Valzul darkly. He looked towards his hand, seeing the fresh scar that had been left by a sword's blade.

"Edward found you?" Deephoof visibly stiffened. At Valzul's affirmation, he continued, "I encountered him in the Barrens - Captain Sorot told him much."

"We were passing back through Ashenvale when sentinels found us," Azshana said. "Edward killed one sentinel before we began to fight. Then the other sentinel-" Her voice faltered, and Valzul could see the pain just under the surface of her eyes. "Then we had to flee."

Deephoof looked questioningly towards Valzul, who in turn nodded. The Tauren's eyes widened briefly before he returned his attention to Azshana.

"Were there any others who…" Deephoof paused, as though considering his words carefully. "…saw what happened?"

"Just Edwed," said Valzul, answering for Azshana whose gaze had drifted away. "He was alive when we left him. More sentinels were coming, so we had to go."

Deephoof did not take the news well. He gritted his teeth, then, his shoulders falling, sighed. "Does he know you were heading to Felwood?"

"I don' know," said Valzul. "But I'm gonna head down tah Ashenvale and see if he's anywhere in Splintertree before I-"

"No-" Deephoof interrupted. "You must stay away from Horde territories for now." He regarded Valzul with a dark stare. "You're being hunted for murder."

Valzul did not consider himself as one who could be easily startled. In Durotar, where centaur ambushes were commonplace, and small but venomous scorpids crouched underneath the sand, a certain degree of callousness was almost a necessity. However, even he could not keep his jaw from sagging open in shock.

"I encountered Edward while journeying with the Orc caravan through the Barrens," continued Deephoof. "He called you a fugitive, accusing you of murder. When we reached Splintertree Post, I found that his accusation carried some weight - there was a warrant for you posted outside the inn - for cannibalism."

Valzul opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then opened again - unsure of what to say. His mind was a confused blur as he looked towards Azshana, whose eyes were now set on him. How was it even possible?

While the highest punishment Thrall would use was exile, that assumed that other Orcs did not reach him first. Cannibalism especially struck a deep cord within Orcs, and he did not even want to think what would happen to him if he ran into a rowdy band in the Barrens or Durotar.

Valzul felt his mouth go dry. "Murder? Of who?"

"The Orc's name was Thork," said Deephoof. "Do you recognize it?"

_Thork._ He knew that name. "That was the Orc that saw Azshana, that had the farm near-" Valzul stopped - realization hitting him. "_Edwed_. He did it!"

Deephoof nodded, his expression grave. "I imagined as much. Regardless, this leaves you with few options."

"Could he go to Moonglade?" Azshana asked.

"While I know of Valzul's innocence, the other druids do not," said Deephoof. "They would not accept him into the sanctuary. I have friends, however, that I could speak with, if given time. I doubt Edward's accusation will stand up to scrutiny. Until then, you must wait."

"I don't like the idea of staying here until then," said Azshana, nervously glancing further into the cave, where vague shapes moved up and down shadowed corridors.

"Unfortunately, I doubt the Timbermaw will keep you for that long," said Deephoof. "In more trusting times, they would be more hospitable, but these are not trusting times."

"Felwood is a death trap," said Valzul. "We can't go into Moonglade. So dat leaves Winterspring."

"Everlook would be ideal," Deephoof agreed. "The town is neutral and run by goblins, so I would not expect you would have any trouble there."

"And it would not be odd for you to be seen with the Alliance, either," Azshana added.

Valzul looked at her, not expecting that she would be willing to go with him, yet suddenly feeling foolish for thinking so.

"And you will need the company, Valzul," Deephoof said, not blinking an eye at Azshana's subtle assertion. "While Everlook is neutral, it is also brutal, as goblin towns tend to be."

"I would expect Edward to be actively searching for you, as well," continued Deephoof. "I suppose this is the time to ask why specifically he wants to kill you."

"Dat's a question I've had too," said Valzul. "An' I don't have any idea. First time he was just after 'Shana, but now it's like he wants us both dead."

Deephoof stared at him shrewdly. "Whatever the reason, Edward has gone to great lengths to track you. And now, with this crime he has stuck to you, he has effectively bottled you into this corner of Azeroth. Be wary, and consider that it is possible that Edward is not alone."

"I just need my-" Valzul paused, looking around his shallow bed of feathers and fur. "Where are my axes?"

"Ah, yes," said Deephoof, sounding pleased. "The Timbermaw held all of your possessions for safekeeping - as in addition to you, Azshana was unconscious as well. While I was passing through to Moonglade, they took me aside to show you to me - and I of course immediately recognized you."

Deephoof bent to his knees - no small feat for a Tauren his age. "Between looking over you and listening to the Timbermaw, I guessed much of what happened to you. I told you before that I have worked with the Timbermaw several times previously, and it so happens that their smith owes me several favors."

Deephoof lifted a cloth cover from the ground to reveal a small array of glinting metal. Valzul, from his poor angle, could distinguish little. "I had him clean and sharpen your weapons. I also had him adjust a bit of an old relic…"

The Tauren lifted an iron hauberk from the glimmering mass. It clearly had seen much use, but had been scrubbed and polished until every ring flashed under the torchlight. Judging from the shape of the chest and arms, it had been originally made for a much bulkier figure, but later been refitted.

"Dat was…yours?"

"Not mine," said Deephoof. "But a gift from when I was younger. I used to wear it when I crossed through the more dangerous parts of Azeroth, yet there is little point for me to have it anymore."

Valzul did not quite believe it. Armor was hard to come by in Durotar, and even having a few pieces - much less a hauberk - was rare.

"Why?" Azshana had asked what Valzul could not.

Deephoof's reply was only half-serious. "Because swords are sharp."

Valzul chuckled, and Azshana smiled as well, but persisted. "Is it because she would have wanted you to?"

"I cannot guess what you learned," Deephoof said, his expression curious. "Or how you learned it. I do know, however, that she is far into the past, and Timbermaw Hold is no place to raise the spirits."

Valzul looked between Deephoof and her, unsure of who Azshana was referencing. "She?"

"_She_ was," Deephoof began, trying to answer Valzul but finding it difficult. "-a druid that I worked closely with for many years. I confess now that when I first spoke with you in the tavern in Camp Mojache, Valzul, that I was not being entirely honest. What I saw in you was my own folly."

"I don't understand," said Valzul.

"And I said before, this is no place to raise spirits," replied Deephoof. He gestured to the hauberk that now laid on the floor. "Accept this token as the gift that it is."

From one of the dimly lit tunnels emerged a furbolg, dressed with little ornament, carrying only a small box and a bundle of furs. Setting his burden near Valzul, he looked meaningfully at Deephoof. The Tauren, seeming to understand, nodded, while Azshana just stared - distrust and apprehension crossing her face.

"His name is Forg," said Deephoof. "He cannot speak Common, but he's very interested in you."

The furbolg, seeming satisfied, turned his attention to Valzul, yellow eyes narrowly looking the Troll up and down. A low, rumbling growl came from Forg's throat, and Valzul felt the hair on his neck begin to stand on end. He matched Forg's gaze, trying not to look at the furbolg's heavy claws that swung back and forth like a pair of pendulums. Another growl - but Valzul was not sure if Forg was being aggressive or simply sighing.

Without warning, Forg's claw came and grabbed hold of one of Valzul's tusks, giving it a sharp shake as though trying to determine whether it was actually part of the Troll's face. Valzul reflexively wrenched the claw away, his other hand going to his side before he realized that he was completely unarmed.

"It's simply a greeting gesture," reassured Deephoof. "Not many Trolls come this far north. You have little to fear from them."

Valzul hesitated, not liking the furbolg's overly physical welcome, and hoping that Forg's curiosity would soon wane. Azshana retreated from the pair, as though trying avoid being noticed.

Forg's head tilted as he regarded Valzul with appraising eyes. It was an odd expression, not one that would normally be associated with a furbolg. His snout twitched, as though sniffing for something.

After a moment, Forg growled once more, glancing quickly at Deephoof. He then left the room with the same slow, half-stumbling gait that he had when he came.

Valzul rubbed the base of his tusks - his jaw a bit sore from how roughly the furbolg had unexpectedly grabbed him. "And what was da point of dat?"

"Forg wished to see you before making his offer," said Deephoof. "The Timbermaw always insist on seeing who they're dealing with."

"What deal would dat be?"

Deephoof gestured to the furbolg's bundle that now sat on the floor in front of Valzul. "A shaman mentioned it to me earlier, but you were not awake. He told me that they were seeking a courier to Everlook, to deliver a package of Firewater. I did not speak on your behalf, though I did mention that it would be likely that you would be going there."

Azshana's eyes flashed. "I don't think the Winterfall would approve of that."

"Which is why it has been bottled and sealed," Deephoof said, turning a questioning eye at her. "You're familiar with the poison?"

Azshana hesitated before nodding, not elaborating.

"What is Firewater," Valzul said, seizing the lapse in conversation to. "Who are da Winterfall, and what do dey have to do with it?"

"The Winterfall are the dominant furbolg tribe in Winterspring," explained Deephoof. "They, like many other furbolg tribes, were peaceful until the arrival of the Legion."

"With the corruption of Felwood, the Winterfall began acquiring a substance called Firewater. While it was originally seen as only a potion to boost strength, it soon became apparent that Firewater was actually much more than it seemed."

"The Winterfall turned aggressive, assaulting travelers and other foreigners, their demands for Firewater ever increasing. When the Circle first investigated, they found immediately that the drug was mind altering and highly addictive."

"However, by then, it was too late. The Winterfall were consuming Firewater by the cauldron."

"Dat's not something dat I'd want to be messin' around in," said Valzul, the Timbermaw's offer becoming less tempting by the second. "Da Timbermaw want me to be carrying a case of dat stuff past a bunch of addicts all da way to Everlook?" He chanced a glance towards Azshana, whose expression mirrored his thoughts.

"If you wish to reach Everlook, there's not much choice," said Deephoof. "You're ill-prepared for a trek through Winterspring, and in exchange for delivering the Firewater to Everlook, the Timbermaw will provide you with the supplies you need - food, clothing, everything."

Valzul could tell that Azshana did not like the idea of dealing with furbolgs, but Deephoof had a point. Without boots and a heavy overcoat, they might as well turn around and go back through Felwood.

Yet Azshana did not speak. She did not even move. He realized that he had seen her in such a mood once before - in the smugglers' cage. She was trying to avoid speaking with him, and Valzul could only guess at the reasons.

_Ya can' t expect her tah kill her own kind and be fine with it, mon._

Valzul frowned as he remembered her reaction after the sentinel died. How had she coped the past few days, fighting with herself as he slept?

"We'll do it," said Valzul, averting Azshana's gaze.

"It's your best route to avoid the Horde," said Deephoof. "Though every choice carries its own risks. After I speak with my friends, I will contact you. With good fortune, I should have news within a few days."

If he stayed in Everlook, Valzul knew that he would not be touched by the Horde - that is, if they even recognized him. Winterspring was distant enough from Durotar that the Horde in the area may not even be on the lookout for him.

Valzul's main concern was not with the Horde in Winterspring, however. He thought of Edward, who undoubtedly was still searching for him. Though Valzul was a long way from Ashenvale, it was naïve to think that Edward would not find a lead and trek northward.

A small, dark part of Valzul hoped that he would meet the Forsaken once more. He did not understand Edward's motivation, but he recognized hatred when he saw it. He knew the difference between those who had made a life from killing and those who simply fed from a vendetta. Edward was the latter, and Valzul knew that there were few ways to deal with such individuals.

The cave in the Barrens was the first time that Edward had come close to killing both him and Azshana. Ashenvale was the second.

Valzul would not allow a third.


	14. Three Paths

The feathered raptor shifted uncomfortably in the stable, clearly not enjoying the harness and tether that bound it to a thick wooden post that seemed far too large for the purpose it served.

But then again, Gallek reconsidered, it was undoubtedly designed to withstand even an unruly kodo. Orcs, if nothing else, knew how to control mounts.

The raptor turned its head towards Gallek and stared, its head swaying back and forth, evaluating him. Mounts often shared the temperament of their owners, and Gallek could see the aggressive imprint Zeenjen had left on the raptor as it a low growl - almost like a purr - rumbled from its throat. Despite the late hour, and the fact it had traveled all the way to Ashenvale from Durotar in the space of a week, it did not seem tired or even weary.

Raptors were keen animals, and this one was no exception. It almost seemed to sense Gallek's intentions as it snorted and bared the very tips of its fangs. It shook, fluffing the feathers that lined its neck and trailed down its spine in an empty attempt at intimidation.

Gallek considered his next move. He had tracked Zeenjen all the way north to Ashenvale, and while the Troll's abrupt movements were suspicious, they had yet to yield anything enlightening. He wondered if he should have searching and pursued some other lead.

Still, his instinct warned him that Zeenjen had lied to him at least once in their meeting last week. He severely doubted that a Horde officer knew nothing of a murder that two of his underlings were involved in - one of which being his own brother. Indeed, a brother's involvement is all the more reason to lie.

Gallek sighed, his eyes wandering to the nearby inn. A welcoming light glowed from the doorway, and he felt himself drawn to it though he knew it would not be worth the risk of running into Zeenjen. It was already night, however, and he would need to sleep soon.

It was likely that Zeenjen's sudden trek north would take Gallek to either Edward or Valzul - and from there he would gain the key to unraveling the case. This all presuming, of course, that either of them weren't hiding and were willing to talk. Or alive, for that matter - Gallek was keenly aware of the death sentence he had set on Valzul once he had mailed his reports to Orgrimmar.

Gallek groaned and rubbed his forward. He suddenly yearned for the simple, boring tavern murders that were so common on the frontier. At least then there were at least five other witnesses.

A woman's voice shook Gallek from his reverie. "Your raptor?"

Gallek turned to see a young Orc woman standing next to him, her dark hair casually thrown behind her shoulders, wearing one of the simple leather tunics that were so common among the frontier Horde settlements. There was a small scar along her chin, and her nose had been broken at least a few times.

Gallek found himself smiling. It had been a while since he had seen an attractive woman. "No."

"Didn't think so," she replied, crossing her arms. "For one, only Trolls are usually crazy enough to ride a raptor, and for two, that raptor hates you."

As in affirmation, the raptor snorted and snapped its jaws in the air.

"Then why'd you ask?"

She shrugged. "Don't know. Just the way you were looking at it, I suppose."

"Just thought it was interesting," Gallek said vaguely. His eyes wandered to her legs, and then back to her face.

"Right," she said with a laugh that told him she did not believe him at all. "Either way, whoever rides that raptor is an ass."

Despite himself, Gallek found his interest in her words being piqued. "What do you mean?"

"Look at its back, near the tail," she said, pointing a stubby finger. As though sensing the sudden attention on it, The raptor snarled and retreated under the shadow of the stable. Soon, all he could see was flashes of glistening scales and a roving pair of yellow eyes.

Gallek frowned, not seeing what she was referencing.

"You can't see it now, but the scales are darkened here and there," she continued, her lips pursed. "Whoever rides it, also beats it regularly, and badly. I hate seeing mounts getting abused."

The revelation did not particularly surprise Gallek. Zeenjen had a reputation of having a cruel streak, and the brief meeting they had only served to reinforce this impression. But then, what Troll didn't have a cruel streak?

"Me too," said Gallek, not meaning it. While he did not see the need for hitting his riding wolf, it did not disturb him. Some animals, he knew, only respected a baton. "The raptor will turn on him, one day."

She shook her head, smiling a crooked smile. "Not likely. If anything, the owner will be the last one that raptor bites. You, me, or anyone else it would not even have to think twice."

She touched the scar along her chin, then, as though realizing what she was doing, pulled her hand away.

"But that's not the worst I've seen," she said. Gallek could see her shiver though there was no chill in the air. "A few nights ago, a Forsaken stops by here and buys one of the wolves. Of course, it's damn near impossible to get an animal to let a Forsaken on its back."

Gallek nodded, his breath hitching in his throat. He was on the right trail - he had to be. After all, how many Forsaken could there possibly be wandering through Kalimdor?

"So anyway, I sit out to watch," she continues, not noticing Gallek's suddenly intense gaze. "Not really interested, but more to see him struggle with a wolf. But he doesn't even try to mount it. He just pulls something out of his cloak, and wafts it in front of the wolf's face. The wolf goes wild, jerking its tether and stretching its hardness, and I'm expecting it to rip that post right out of the ground." She gestured towards the massive post that Gallek had noticed earlier.

"What was it?" Gallek had a few guesses, none of which were pleasant. He heard rumors, and knew of secondhand stories of how the Forsaken find riding mounts when they don't have the time or inclination to dig them out of the ground.

"I don't know," Her mouth became thin, almost like a line. "Animals don't react like that for no reason. I don't know what he pulled out of his cloak, but next time I saw him, the Forsaken was riding that wolf without a problem."

Gallek tilted his head. "And the wolf?"

"Looked like a zombie, with glazed eyes," she said quietly. "Like it was dead. And after all, aren't the only things that willingly bear the Forsaken are dead steeds?"

Gallek frowned at that, not liking the news. If Edward had acquired a mount, he could be anywhere from Stonetalon to Winterspring by now. Where would he be going?

Those thoughts left his mind as he noticed that she was still staring at the raptor, her face suddenly expressionless. He would track Zeenjen in the morning, and let the Troll worry about where they were going. Now more than ever he was certain that Zeenjen's path was the path to the truth.

"What brings you to Splintertree?" she asked, as though wanting to leave the topic of the wolf. "Haven't seen you around here before."

"I'm an Inspector from Orgrimmar," Gallek replied, pleased when he saw her face lighten. "Just traveling."

"An Inspector?" she said, smiling and touching his arm. "Haven't seen one from Orgrimmar in a month or so now. You don't look the part."

"I try not to be obvious."

"Can't say it's not good to get that sort of attention to Splintertree," she said. "It's been getting worse in the Barrens and Ashenvale. There's a new post searching for a Troll who committed cannibalism…on an Orc! Even in these parts, that's unheard of."

"I've heard of the case," said Gallek evasively. While he knew that eventually that postings would be released, he was surprised that it had happened so quickly. He supposed that the nature of the crime had expedited Orgrimmar's response.

Gallek sighed. He would need to move quickly. He had less time than he thought.

"What's your name?" Gallek asked, wanting to get her mind - and his - off darkening thoughts and more into where he wanted them to be.

"Orra," she said with another smile. "You?"

"Gallek."

"Going to be here long?"

He liked the turn of the conversation. "Maybe," he said, knowing well that he would be leaving the next day.

Gallek glanced towards the tavern, seeing once more the welcoming light spilling from the door. Previously, he had deemed the risk of encountering Zeenjen too high to be worth going, but now he was having second thoughts. Already he was trying to rationalize what he knew to be his final decision.

_After all, I don't plan to be drinking for _too_ long…_

Not to mention, it had been a very long time, and Orgrimmar was very far away - the distance seeming to become greater with every passing second.

"You want to have a drink? Gallek asked, and Orra smiled.

OOO

When the Darkspear Trolls first arrived in Durotar, they found that it was not as different from Stranglethorn Vale as they had anticipated. Certainly, now they were more concerned with the centaur than they were with murlocs, but they were not as unused to the oppressive heat as the Orcs were.

The most difficult problem they had to overcome was the freezing Durotar nights. While the Trolls appreciated the lack of humidity, the sand and barren rock did not hold the heat after the sun died like the jungles on the Broken Isles, and after their first night many of the Darkspear wondered if the land was cursed. Furs and prepared fires made them comfortable, but even then the Trolls had trouble adjusting to the cold.

Winterspring was nothing like the nights in Durotar. It was far, far worse than anything Valzul had ever before experienced.

The wind and snow swirled around him, snapping at his ears and fingers with sharp, icy teeth. The furs provided by the Furbolgs - furs that he at first thought were excessive - he now wrapped tightly around himself, wishing he had brought more.

Staring out from behind a strap of fur he had covered his face with, Valzul stared across the landscape of snow. The only breaks in the wall of whiteness were dark rivets of slush and mud, which acted as the only markers they had to Everlook, and stunted evergreens that tried vainly to resist the brutal weather.

While the snow and cold were not entirely unexpected, Valzul had not expected such an extreme opposite from Durotar - or even Ashenvale. It was as if they were on another a continent - a land where living things were not welcome, and either scavenged to survive or withered and died.

Tribes of Furbolgs lived somewhere nearby, Valzul knew, but he had yet to see any signs of them.

_All for da better_, he thought, adjusting the wooden box of firewater he carried under his arm. The Timbermaw had warned him that the Winterfall tribe possessed an exceptionally keen sense of smell for the drug, and that he should exercise great care while handling it.

Valzul, taking no risks, obliged by stuffing the case full of their excess cloth with the idea that it would prevent damage during their journey. The last thing he wanted was for a vial to shatter mid-trip. It would take no time at all for the wind to carry the scent to the nearest tribe and bring ravenous Winterfall Furbolgs charging down on them.

"This can't be right," said Azshana - or Valzul thought she said. It was difficult to tell, with her voice muffled by the fur covering her mouth and howling wind.

Valzul turned to her, hoping he had misheard. Her heavy eyes, however, confirmed what he suspected. He had not misheard.

Shaking her head, Azshana removed the fur from her face. The cold had added a shade of red to her skin tone, her hair catching flakes of snow. "The trail is wandering south - and Deephoof told us the town was due east."

"Where else could we be going?"

Azshana shrugged, though with the mass of fur covering her it was barely noticeable. "Maybe we confused the road somewhere back. This isn't just goblin territory - the native Furbolgs are sure to have their own traveling paths."

Valzul looked back the way they came - seeing their own footprints beginning to fill and vanish from the tumbling snow and wind.

"We can't go back," Valzul said, a chill running through him not entirely due to the weather. "We're not even sure where we went wrong, or if we went wrong, and dere's not enough food to last for more dan a day. We gotta hope dis trail turns east again and find Everlook before night comes."

Azshana nodded, covering her face once more with the fur. Valzul tried the same but found that, despite his best efforts, he could not stay warm. His main worry were his ears - as he had lost feeling in them some time ago.

Trying to distract himself, Valzul asked, "Does Teldrassil get cold like dis? Or have snow?"

"No," said Azshana. "There are trees, and it's warm. Like Ashenvale." She paused for a moment. "Did you ask that before?"

Valzul's mind wander backwards, into Feralas. "Maybe." It was hard to remember, like the wind was pervading his very thoughts.

"Valzul?"

He turned to her, hearing an odd tone in her voice. Her pace had slowed, but the steam in her breath made it difficult for Valzul to read her expression.

"In Ashenvale," Azshana began, her voice sounding flat, detached. "I don't regret killing the sentry."

Valzul regarded her steadily, taking a moment to register her words. It was not what he had expected her to say - indeed, everything he had seen had led him to the opposite conclusion.

As though sensing his thoughts, Azshana continued, "It's strange feeling a certain way when you know you should be feeling a different way."

He would not say it, but Valzul heard a double-meaning in her words. He was suddenly reminded of something Deephoof had told him in what seemed like an age ago in Camp Mojache. "Guilt, but not regret?"

"Yes," Azshana agreed. "Guilt over a death that could have been avoided." She paused, looking at him thoughtfully. "You seem to know what I mean. Have you…"

Azshana did not finish the question, but she did not have to. Valzul knew precisely what he was being asked.

"Yeah," he answered, and did not elaborate.

Azshana, as though sensing his discomfort, did not ask further.

Valzul pressed on through the snow, trying to ignore the cold that was seeping into his feet and extremities. He began wondering if coming here had been a mistake, and whether Deephoof's advice had been foul.

Winterspring was nothing like Durotar, and that was what made Valzul more afraid than anything else. All of the experience he had gained in survival and movement across the land was irrelevant here. If they were lost in Durotar, he could name a dozen ways that they could scavenge for food and find shelter. In Winterspring, the snow and wind rendered an entirely different environment, and Valzul was lost in it.

The Darkspear held their ancestors to high regard, yet rarely had Valzul ever called upon them, or asked for their blessing. Spirits, even benevolent ones, disturbed him, and he would rather work problems through by himself than meddle in the spirit world. Yet now he found himself hoping beyond anything that they were present and guiding him.

Every bit of magic or voodoo was aided by an ancestor, and Valzul could use some of that aid - though perhaps in a different fashion. He had nothing that the Darkspear witch doctors had used in their worship, and knew less of the ritual dances.

Valzul hoped that his own personal calling would suffice. His eyes glanced to Azshana.

_Hopefully da ancestors won' ask any questions about my company,_ he thought wryly.

For a while, it almost seemed as though they were on the right path. The falling snow had slowed significantly, and the clearing air allowed Valzul to see farther across the terrain. Ahead, past a thicket of trees and around a drift, the trail seemed to curve eastward. The trail itself was only barely visible - marked only by darkened slush and rivets.

"If we can reach Everlook, we'll be safe," said Azshana, her voice sounding confident, though her expression could not be read. "Deephoof said he would speak with the druids in Moonglade and allow us to gain sanctuary."

"Yeah, but we don't know how long dat will take," Valzul said. While their fortunes were finally seeming to turn, he was not confident the change would hold. "An' remember, Edwed is still somewhere behind us, and I don't think he's the type to give up."

Valzul, despite his words, was not exceptionally concerned with Edward, however. If there was one advantage of the swirling snow, it made tracking him and Azshana difficult. Even Valzul was having trouble navigating through the weather, and he was looking for a damned city complete with directions.

"Look!" Azshana's voice was pitched with excitement, and Valzul quickly followed her line of sight to see the outline of some sort of structure. She removed the fur covering her face. "That has to be it - has to be Everlook!"

Valzul squinted, snow stinging his eyes as he tried to get a better look. It was difficult to see through the haze, but he could soon tell without a doubt that it was a building. Whether it was alone, or part of a larger complex, Valzul could not yet determine.

Despite himself, Valzul found himself grinning. Their fortune was indeed holding, and maybe even his ancestors had answered his call.

A moment later, however, and it became clear that Azshana did not share his elation. Her smile faded as they approached, and soon her mouth began to sag open. Lightly, with a touch so gentle he barely noticed it, she put her hand on Valzul's shoulder. He stopped after she grabbed her arm.

"What-?"

Azshana directed his questioning gaze forward, to the left side of the trail. A hut sat half-hidden behind a gangly tree, a small fire burning in front of it. Valzul grasped the meaning immediately, and he turned back to Azshana with wide eyes.

Goblins never lived in huts of leather and timber unless they were absolutely desperate, and would not build a town this far north without some sort of wall or fortification. Valzul peered forward again, towards the outline they had first seen. It had taken the shape of another hut, and another and another…

"We need to leave," Azshana said simply, but Valzul did not move.

They had not been following the main road, they had been following a Winterfell hunting trail. They had not been heading towards Everlook, but to a Winterfell tribe encampment. Though he could see none of the furbolgs yet, Valzul was certain that they had retreated into their huts, waiting for the blizzard to pass. The box of firewater under his arm suddenly felt very, very heavy.

Valzul's ancestors had abandoned him. He and Azshana were alone in Winterspring, he realized, and they were now quite lost.

_No, not abandoned_, Valzul decided. In this cold, brutal land, so far from Durotar and Stranglethorn, his ancestors were never here to begin with.

OOO

_At least it doesn't smell_, Edward decided, looking over the dying forest one last time.

When the demons invaded, Felwood was the hardest hit, and neither the land or the creatures inhabiting it have managed to recover from the demonic taint that had stained the land. It was as if the earth itself was dying, its skin turning a mottled brown with dried leaves, bleeding a thick slime down rivulets to form small cesspools of corruption here and there on the landscape.

_But,_ Edward repeated. _At least it doesn't stink._

Edward finished tying his wolf to the decaying stump of a tree, though in truth it was a wolf no more. Its eyes had a dull sheen to them, and the fur had a reek of decaying flesh. While it still retained much of its flesh and hair, it would not be much longer before the mask of life slid away from it. The wolf walked, though it lived no longer.

The wolf had also served its only purpose, and it was unlikely Edward would use it any further. The Timbermaw would never let such a creature into their hold. The appearance and stench of rot reminded them too much of the undead beasts that roamed through Felwood - another side effect of the demonic corruption.

Nothing was untouched - everything from the animals to the local furbolg tribes were feral from the foreign influence.

The lone exception were the Timbermaw, who had hid in their tunnels during the demonic invasion, and managed to ride out the worst of the damage done to the land. As Edward stood before the furbolg sentry guarding the tunnel entrance, he found himself suddenly wishing that the demons had been more thorough in their scourging of Felwood.

"I need to pass through these tunnels," Edward said, and presented the writ of travel that had been signed by Zeenjen. He offered it to the furbolg, but the sentry simply stared. "This writ grants me permission to travel freely though Horde lands. While I realize most would hesitate to claim this…place…as their own, the Horde maintains an encampment at Splintertree, marking this territory as under Thrall's authority."

The furbolg tilted its head every so slightly, as though regarding Edward as something less than an annoying insect. He felt his patience beginning to thin.

"I know who went through here," Edward said, knowing that the furbolg probably didn't understand a word he was saying. He partially drew his sword, revealing the first few inches of blade. "But I will be coming through one way or another. I will be coming through here unmolested, or I will be coming through here with a set of fur pelts to take the chill off the Winterspring wind."

Whether it was the sight of Edward's blade, or his tone of voice, the sentry did not react well. The furbolg bared its teeth, the fur along its back and arms beginning to stiffen in a show of aggression.

Edward was not deterred, or even displeased. He had not eaten since the Elf in Ashenvale, and he was yearning for more. It was just not any meat that satisfied him, but the flesh from another conscious creature - be it Elf, Orc, or Timbermaw. Having fresh warm blood coursing through his body was a feeling he had become addicted to, and he wanted more.

The furbolg extended its yellowed claws, its eyes darkening as it watched Edward release his sword from the scabbard. There was intelligence in the furbolg's eyes, Edward knew, and that knowledge gave him a bit of a thrill. How would an animal with a mind of a man fight its battles?

An excited voice in his head urged him on, and his sword began to shake in his hand.

"The Troll came this way, I know it," said Edward in a low voice, more to himself than anything. "Valzul is somewhere in Winterspring, bottled in there. There is no where left for him."

Edward felt a thumping in his chest - a foreign feeling that had left him long ago. His heart vainly pumped cold blood through his veins, and even now he could feel his clothes begin to moisten as it leaked in places where he was cut and the veins severed. Why it beat now he did not understand, and he was not concerned. The beating of a dead heart was low on the list of unusual things he had recently experienced.

"Troll?"

Edward heard the guttural voice come from the darkness of the tunnel. He took his eyes off the guard and turned to see a furbolg emerge - leaning heavily on a feathered staff, ritual beats around its neck and down its arms.

The furbolg shaman spoke again. "Troll?"

Edward felt the thumping in his chest begin to slow, then finally stop, as aggression left him. The furbolg's voice could barely be understood, but the question was clear all the same.

Edward turned his attention back to the guard, who appeared somewhat disturbed by the turn of events. His eyes were now lowered to Edward's leg, its nose snuffing the thick air. He just realized that his heart had caused blood to trickle from an old wound on his hip, and it was now drooling down his leg like molasses. Disliking the furbolg guard's gaze, Edward wiped the blood away.

The furbolg with the staff tapped the ground twice, as though to get Edward's attention. For a moment, it simply stared expectantly.

It was becoming clear to him that a Troll had come through the Timbermaw tunnels. The true question was whether the Troll was Valzul.

"Elf?" Edward asked, hoping that the furbolg at least knew a few more words.

"Elf," the shaman echoed, seeming satisfied. The furbolg tapped its staff again, then motioned with a clawed hand.

It took much for Edward to suppress a thrilled grin. He _was_ on the right track. A Troll and Elf traveling together - it could not have been a coincidence.

Edward stepped forward into the tunnel, almost stopped by the guard. The furbolg had crossed his path with a spear, and it took a curt growl from the shaman for him to remove it.

Cool shadows passed over his face as Edward followed the shaman through the belly of Timbermaw hold. Dim torches lit the sparse corridors, the light so low that he had trouble walking with confidence. Furbolg eyesight would have to be very keen to use such passages, Edward realized. He felt suddenly glad he had not been forced to fight his way through the hold.

Furbolgs peered at him from dark crevices and chambers as he passed by, some issuing a low growl, others just staring. The occasional rush of air, heavy with stench, was the only sign that he was actually passing by other corridors. More than once Edward was certain that he had passed under a hole that was dug into the ceiling - seemingly acting as some sort of ventilation. Timbermaw Hold was built like a maze, and it was not long before Edward realized he would not be able to find his way out on his own.

The smell was the worst part, however. The entire hold reeked of furbolg - of their sweat and fur and breath like spoiled meat. It reminded him vaguely of the Crossroads, though worse. He already felt himself begin to grow impatient with this walk. The air had few places to escape, and was therefore stagnant, carrying last week's stench.

After another few minutes, Edward noticed the corridor become wider, with the dirt walls beginning to turn into stone. Smaller, almost natural holes in the ceiling dripped water above them, and when he saw the slightest spec of sunlight through one he knew that he was not far below ground. The pale walls, patched with moss, carried the light from the torches far better than the earth, and he was able to see that the were entering a chamber, empty of everything except two makeshift bedrolls.

The shaman stopped at the center, then turned to Edward, as though waiting.

"What?" Edward said, his tone carrying a biting edge that he knew the furbolg would not notice. He hated being led blind through the endless tunnels, and moreso hated the riddles in communication. "What is this?"

The shaman glanced towards the bedrolls, and then Edward knew. He walked towards them, kneeling by first. It was composed almost entirely of fur resting on a bed of feathers, and already Edward could recognize the smell of its former occupant. His mind flashed with Valzul's face - a vision of the Troll's mocking expression - and he felt his heart thump once, and then grow still. The shaman had taken him to where the Troll and Elf had slept.

Edward straightened and regarded the shaman coldly. "Where?"

The shaman tilted its head. "You."

"Me?" Edward could not decide what the shaman meant. Did it think that he was the Troll's friend? The irony would be delicious. "Winterspring?"

"Ev-" The shaman seemed to hesitate, as though having trouble pronouncing the word. It tried again, snorted, then simply shook its head.

Edward needed to be sure. "Everlook?" He waiting, searching for any recognition in the furbolg's eyes.

Finally, the furbolg nodded. "Yes." The acknowledgement was barely audible, little more than a grunt, but Edward understood.

Edward grinned, and this time did not bother to hide it. He felt the corners of his mouth begin to tear from the strain, but did not care. Cold blood began to leak into his mouth. He was close - so close. Valzul could not have been more than a couple days ahead.

The chilled blood on his tongue was making him hunger for something warm, and he turned a predatory gaze onto the furbolg. For an instant, his fingers brushed his sword hilt, and he considered chopping the shaman up and having a short repast before continuing. But, unfortunately, there was the matter of finding the Winterspring exit to consider.

"Show me," said Edward, knowing his expression must be hideous. The shaman hesitated, staring at Edward curiously, before once again leading him into a tunnel.


	15. Warm Welcomes

**(You know it's bad when you don't remember how to upload chapters.**

**I'm not certain how many people still follow this - and if someone is, they have an incredible amount of patience. This story is taking way longer than it should be.**

**This is getting and will eventually be finished. There aren't many chapters left, so I have no excuse for not completing this. I know myself better than to make any promise for when the next update will be, but since I'm on a roll now I'm thinking it will be a week or two. Again, the patience is appreciated.)**

Azshana's teeth began to chatter in a way that had little to do with the cold. How her and Valzul had steered off course and towards a furbolg village, or where they left the main road to Everlook, seemed unimportant and distant.

"Dis is too far south," Valzul said. Fur covered his mouth and tusks, and Azshana could barely make out the words over the wind. "Too far south."

There was something primal in her fear of the furbolgs. As a Night Elf, she knew all too well that, while furbolgs were not innately cruel, they were susceptible to outside influences, and are the first to become crazed when corruption such as the Legion enters the forest.

As such, Night Elves learned to recognize a mad furbolg as the first indicator of a greater evil coming - and Azshana was no exception. Seeing a furbolg, she wondered if and when the madness would surface in them, manifesting itself as their lips pulled back over their teeth. Only after the mad furbolg was put down could she wonder what danger would follow.

Finally seeing the Winterfall camp, Azshana could feel her elven instinct shrieking for her to turn and run - to take arms against whatever had come be it the Legion or worse.

"Shana?" She felt herself being shaken into the present as Valzul grabbed her shoulder, turning her to face him through falling sheets of snow. His breath fumed from between his tusks, and she suddenly wondered how long she had been standing there.

"Come on," Valzul said, and she followed him as they left the trail, her eyes never leaving the makeshift clustering of furbolg tents - the tips and corners bending in the wind.

Azshana already knew supplies were low, and she already knew that they had maybe a day's worth of food left. There was no time left for backtracking, and she knew without asking that Valzul's sudden turn to the north was a last effort to find Everlook before they starved.

It was not an easy detour. Walking through the forest was treacherous, as snow and pine needles concealed ditches and tree roots. More than once Azshana lost her footing when she stepped into a trench that the snow had made appear deceptively shallow. There was one improvement, however: the surrounding evergreens served well in breaking the wind, and for once Azshana was able to hear Valzul when he spoke.

So, when she first heard him stumble, she was able to hear his curse quite clearly.

Azshana knew something was wrong, however, the moment she saw the box as Valzul lifted it from where he had dropped it. Something green oozed from the bottom corner, staining the wood and filling the air with a stench like rotting fruit.

A vial had been broken.

She turned, and although the camp was nowhere in sight, she could already imagine the furbolgs crawling out from their dwellings, raising their snouts and snuffing the air. A metallic taste filled her mouth, and it took her a moment to realize she had bitten her cheek.

Meanwhile, Valzul unlatched the box and tossed the leaking vial behind them, then carefully wiping the green liquid from the box with bits of snow and bark. It was too late, however - the wood had already absorbed much of the firewater.

"They're going to be able to smell that," Azshana said.

"I know dat," Valzul said in a low voice. She could see him pausing to think, as if considering a plan. "But we can't just leave da box here - not after promising to take it to Everlook."

"And if they catch up?"

"We'll deal with dat when it happens," said Valzul. "Right now, we have time, and dis wind may not carry the scent quickly."

Azshana did not like the sound of Valzul's plan, but did not argue. The cold was beginning to tire her, penetrating her covering furs to chill her hands and feet. She had lost the feeling in the tips of her ears a while ago. A blizzard was coming, she knew, and the cold was only going to become worse.

They trudged onwards, the sky and pine forest becoming steadily darker as time passed.

Azshana wanted to talk, to distract herself, but could find nothing to say. Finally, she asked "Are you feeling the cold yet?"

Valzul's short laugh was almost like a cough. "Yet? Dis is colder dan anything I've ever felt."

"So you never left Durotar much?"

Valzul glanced at her curiously before answering. "Nah, most of my life I was on da Echo Isles and den mainland when da fleets came. Fathah hated Kalimdor and would never go far from da village. He used to say dat da Darkspear left all our spirits in Stranglethorn, and dat life was bad cause da spirits were angry at us abandoning dem."

He paused, as though considering something. Then he shook his head and continued, "He'd say dat we'd have to win back favah with da spirits, but dat takes time."

"What did he mean?" Azshana asked. "Your spirits - are they wisps?"

"Not sure what ya mean by wisps," said Valzul. "Spirits can do good, but mostly dey just do bad. Da Darkspear show respect by makin' sacrifices for da spirits, so dey don't become angry. And if a Darkspear kill an enemy, dey would eat the enemy to keep his spirit from seeking vengeance. It's not about having da spirits do good things as much as it is to keep them from working evil."

Azshana never heard Valzul spoke as he was now. She was expecting resentment or longing to enter his voice, but none ever did. It occurred to her that Valzul felt detached from his tribe, and was speaking not of friends and family, but of distant acquaintances that he had not spoken with in some time.

"When da Darkspear joined da Horde, though, da eatin' of da enemies and da blood sacrifices had to stop," Valzul continued. "Fathah said da spirits were angry about us leavin', and if dey ever found us, and saw dat da sacrifices had stopped, worse enemies dan Proudmoore would be visiting us."

"Did he ever say who?"

Valzul was quiet for a long time before he finally answered. "He doesn't say much anymore."

"At least in Winterspring, the spirits won't find us?"

Valzul grinned at that - or seemed to, as fur covered much of his face. "Nah, in dis place, the bigger danger is in da living." He looked over his shoulder, and the grin vanished.

Azshana did not see them immediately. At first she thought she was seeing a wavering shadow, or maybe short pine bending in the wind. The figure came closer, however, and soon the outline darkened into the shape of a furbolg.

"Keep moving," Valzul warned, but she was already ahead of him. Another outline appeared, not too far beyond its companion.

The snow was above their knees, and even deeper in some places - preventing them from being able to run or do anything more than trudge through with wide steps. The furbolgs seemed to have no such problem, and were slowly closing the distance.

"They're after the crate," Azshana said.

Valzul's hands were tight enough on the handles that they could have frozen there. He shook the package, as though considering, and then quickly dropped it by the trunk of a tree. They left it half-buried in the snow, and Azshana quietly prayed that the furbolgs would abandon the chase.

"If they reach us," Valzul said in a low voice, and tapped his hand on the hand axes he kept in a sling.

Azshana was reminded of her own short dagger she kept on her side, her fingers touching the cold metal hilt as she was reminded of what Landal had told her about the blade remaining bloodless. Somehow, she did not think that this is what he had meant.

"If we have to, we'll stay in da trees," Valzul continued. "We'll never be able to keep our distance from them in this snow, and we'll need to if we want to keep from being mauled. Their size will be a disadvantage in da trees."

Azshana nodded, feeling more confident with Valzul's plan, getting the impression that this was not his first encounter with maddened furbolgs.

The pair of furbolgs stopped only briefly when they reached the crate - one clawing at the wood before the bigger yanked the smaller's paw away. Their gazes shifted back to her, and the pursuit resumed.

"What could they want?" Azshana found herself asking out loud.

"Who knows?" Valzul said, following her stare. "Maybe dey think we have more firewater, maybe dey wanna know _why_ we had firewater. Either way, it's gonna be bad for us."

Azshana had gone so unused to the wind that, when they first entered a clearing, she nearly toppled into the snow. It took her a moment to realize that it was no ordinary clearing that she stumbled in, and, glancing behind her, grabbed Valzul's arm.

"Shana-" he said in confusion, but stopped when he saw where she was pointing.

There were disturbances through the snow - not light enough for an animal, or large enough for a furbolg. She watched Valzul's head whirl up and down what could only have been the road to Everlook.

"East!" he said, grabbing her hand and practically dashing through the shallow snow.

With the wind on her back, and the realization that Everlook could be a short way down the road, Azshana felt herself getting a second wind.

The rush of energy ended abruptly when she saw that, even with the advantage of being on a road, the furbolgs were reaching them - perhaps even faster than before. Soon, Azshana would be able to see their eyes.

"Valzul, they're faster-"

Valzul only spared a quick glance behind them before his face tightened and he nodded. He pointed to one of the larger evergreens near the road, and she quickly began shedding the heavier furs she wore. While the cold was a danger, the furbolgs were more immediate, and the excess weight and bulk would inhibit her climbing.

Azshana felt her elven instinct take over when she grasped the first branch, and in a moment she was partway up the tree while Valzul was still on his second rung. She paused on one of the thicker branches and waited, her hands now sticky with resin and sap. While furbolgs were similar to bears in many aspects, climbing was not one of these aspects, and Azshana felt a degree safer.

It was the first time Azshana was able to get a good look at the pair of furbolgs, and she took this moment to peer through the curtain of needles to see them as they approached.

The larger was larger than even Valzul and plainly dressed, with none of the feathers or adornment that was worn by the Timbermaw tribe furbolgs. The only blemish on its white fur was on its snout, where it turned green from what Azshana could only assume was due to firewater addiction. When the furbolg reached the tree's trunk, its face turned upwards and lips pulled back into a snarl, revealing teeth and gums that were as stained as the fur.

The larger was the first to try and climb, wrapping its claws around the trunk and attempting to shuffle past the branches. Its size made this pointless, however, and all the furbolg succeeded in doing was stripping the bark from the tree. With another snarl, it smashed a loose branch with its paw and pulled the smaller furbolg forward.

While smaller, the furbolg was still as tall as Valzul, though Azshana was also sure the furbolg had the advantage in weight. It was also a much better climber than its partner, and would not take long to reach Valzul's position in the tree - only one branch below hers.

"Shave da bark," Valzul said, taking the edge of his axe and scraping the tree's trunk. "The less grip dis furbolg has on da tree, da better it'll be for us."

Azshana followed suit, retreating higher into the tree with Valzul as she peeled away the bark. It was not cleanly done, but was quick, and soon they had an area of trunk smooth enough to impede the furbolg's progress.

It made less of a difference than Azshana had hoped. The furbolg's claws were sharper than she realized, and it was still able to pull itself forward with stumps of branches and rough patches of trunk.

Valzul, who was carefully positioning himself above where the furbolg was climbing, wrapped his free arm around a higher branch and passed a meaningful look to Azshana. He raised his axe, poising it above a branch directly below him.

Wordlessly, she drew her dagger.

The moment the furbolg's paw reached the branch, Valzul's axe swung downwards, and the resulting howl of pain shook snow from the highest branches of the tree.

The furbolg lunged upwards, though not far enough. The tips of its claw scratched underneath the branch Valzul was perched on.

"Again, c'mon mon."

The paw reached for the branch, blood now staining its white fur and dripping from the nails. When Valzul swung, the furbolg, expecting the attack, slashed at his hand, nearly knocking the hand axe from his grip.

From below, the larger furbolg clawed at the trunk and snarled, as though in frustration.

Azshana, seeing the furbolg's unwounded claw still clutching the trunk, moved to be opposite of Valzul - and out of sight. As the two exchanged swings, she lowered herself to the furbolg's rung - to beside its supporting claw. She was able to smell him - a mingled stench of sweat and rotting fruit. The smaller furbolg, all of its attention focused on Valzul, did not even notice her.

The larger, however, watched her intensely, and she was close enough to see its eyes - a shade of dark olive.

The furbolg issued a low, warning growl from the bottom of the tree, and Azshana could see the smaller visibly stiffen. Not wasting any more time, she drove her dagger into its paw, withdrawing just as quickly and climbing into the next rung of the tree.

It was scarcely necessary, however. No counterattack ever came. The furbolg, recoiling from the pain, lost its grip and toppled backwards, twisting unnaturally far after its fall was broken by the first branch, and then simply crashing downwards until the fall completed with a headfirst dive into the ground.

Azshana stared at the blood left on the blade, a little unnerved, before wiping the dagger clean and sheathing it.

The larger furbolg nudged the smaller one, but it remained still, and soon Azshana was able to see a red stain spreading through the snow around the fallen furbolg's head. The sight, or possibly the scent, of the blood sent the large furbolg into a rage, and once more it clawed and raked at the tree, roaring, as though trying to tear down the evergreen.

Azshana could not see how they would kill the larger furbolg. It could not reach them, and they could not hope to beat the furbolg on the open ground. For now, and, it seemed, for as long as the furbolg remained at the tree's base, they were stuck in an impasse.

It suddenly occurred to her that, if the furbolg did not leave, that she and Valzul would starve or freeze - the latter becoming more likely as she realized how many of the furs she had shed on the road.

She thought that for a short while, anyway, until three cracks of gunshot rang through the forest, scaring a flock of birds from the nearby trees, and the large furbolg collapsed bleeding into the snow.

OOO

Deephoof had trouble remembering the last time he had been to Moonglade. He could not decide whether this was due to his age, or whether he intentionally erased his memory of his time here.

He found that, as he walked, his memory slowly returned to him. A tree that hung precariously over Lake Elune'ara reminded him of afternoons spent lounging, with no councils in session, studying texts of the Night Elf druids that contained more information on the Emerald Dream than he could hope to learn in a lifetime. He was a younger Tauren at that time, with a younger Tauren's vigor, but the Circle was very much the same.

Deephoof thought it odd how the Circle's members could age, but the Circle itself never did.

Many of the druids that he had left behind were still there. Dendrite still attended his own personal flock of young druids - the product of a new generation. Malvor's arthritis, Deephoof could see, had only worsened, and now the Elf could scarcely use a pestle anymore. Lurosa remained as bigoted as ever; not so quietly talking of why the Tauren had no place in Moonglade.

Deephoof was also becoming uncomfortably aware that he was receiving stares of recognition. Some were warm, but most were not. His previous confidence that he could gain sanctuary for Valzul was now not so certain.

Deephoof was not without a plan, however. There were druids in Moonglade that still remembered and respected him, despite his abrupt departure.

"They did not believe me when I told them you would return."

Deephoof turned to find Sendil Wintersong standing under a wooden alcove as though he had not moved since the Tauren had left.

"The years have changed little, I see," Deephoof said, pleased to find that Sendil had not transferred from Moonglade.

Sendil was relatively young for a Night Elf, yet carried more influence than many of his elders. It was whispered among the lower ranks of the Circle that his influence was a large part due to the Wintersong family's prestigious history. Deephoof had decided long ago that such whisperings were unfounded, and were based more on Sendil's unusual racial beliefs rather than any sort of power he held in the Circle.

"I hope I can say the same for you," Sendil said.

Deephoof's eyes fell to Sendil's sash. The same dagger the Circle tried to discourage him from bearing so many years ago was still tucked openly in his belt. He smiled - Sendil too enjoyed pressing the limits of what was deemed acceptable by the elder druids.

"I see Dendrite still has been unsuccessful in convincing you to wear proper attire," Deephoof said. In Moonglade, bearing weapons openly was discouraged, and more than a few times Sendil had been warned to be more discrete.

"Dendrite stopping lecturing when I became part of the left hand," Sendil explained, wearing a smile that was not all amusement. "No more shepherding the flock."

Despite his knowledge of Sendil's connections, Deephoof found himself surprised. The left hand was a small minority of the Cenarion Circle - and needless to say, difficult to become. It was said that the Cenarion Circle had two hands, and where the right one nurtured, the left one squeezed. While the druids had a benevolent view on life in general, they were not naïve, and the left hand played a crucial part in areas such as Silithus, where the region's inhabitants made the Circle's operations dangerous.

"Being part of the left tends to bring travel. How are you still in Moon Glade?" Deephoof was reconsidering how much he wanted to share with Sendil. While the Elf was certainly an old friend, joining the left hand meant he had a violent streak that was wider than the Tauren originally thought.

_But being part of the left also carries weight in a council,_ Deephoof considered. _First, though, I'll need a measure of him._

"That is what I've been asking the elder druids, but with no answer," Sendil said. "It's been a year since I last left Moonglade, and sometimes I wish I just left when you did."

"Doing as I did would end whatever future you hope to achieve," said Deephoof. He knew that Sendil meant it in jest, but the reminder of the departure stirred too many dormant memories.

"I'd hope that I'd have better taste, anyway," Sendil said, then, more soberly, added, "You were mad to admit what was happening. A more prudent druid would have denied everything, especially with Landal involved."

Deephoof began to feel an ache in his legs from standing for too long. "Lying was never something I was particularly skilled at."

Sendil regarded him dryly. "I suppose not."

"How has life been in Moonglade?" Deephoof said, wanting to steer the conversation to more pertinent areas. "Much change?"

"No change in the areas you'd prefer," Sendil said, his voice lowering. "Staghelm is as dangerous as ever. The only reason why the Tauren have not been expelled from the Circle is Staghelm fears shan'do Stormrage's wrath when he finally wakes. As always, the Circle doesn't understand who their true enemies are."

"That's disappointing news," Deephoof said. He did not expect the Circle to be any different, though he was relieved to hear that Sendil's perspective of the Horde had not changed. "Especially for what I wish to request of them."

"So you're not simply here because of nostalgia," Sendil said. "To think that I once thought that you would not come back to Moonglade if shan'do Stormrage himself woke and asked for your return."

"I thought you told the other druids that I would eventually return?"

Sendil shrugged. "I did, but did not believe it myself. So what has happened?"

"I wish to return to the Circle," Deephoof began. The pain in his legs was making him wish for a chair. "But there is more. I also need the Circle to grant a request." He explained his meeting with Valzul in Feralas, and the events that led to the Troll being tracked for execution. Sendil's expression remained unnervingly neutral throughout the tale, to the point where Deephoof began to wonder whether he had misjudged the Elf's personality.

When Deephoof had finished, it was a moment before Sendil spoke. "It's not possible to go back in time. Do not try to live through this Troll."

"That's not what this is about."

"Then tell me what it truly is about then."

"It's about the Cenarion Circle," Deephoof said. "It was designed to nurture and encourage life, not serve as a political and military arm of Darnassus. It's past time that this was recognized."

"There are better and, might I add, more effective avenues of making a policy statement," Sendil said. "Your name still carries a degree of respect in Moonglade, and I do not doubt that you would be welcomed back into the fold should you request it. Tempers have cooled much since you left, and, more importantly, Landal is gone. Granting the Troll and Night Elf sanctuary, however, will not be well received."

Deephoof sighed, leaning against the tree that overhung the lake. Some of the pain in his legs left as they were relieved of their burden, but it seemed like the ache merely shifted to his head.

"They will be killed," Deephoof said. "I assured them sanctuary in Moonglade, but instead they will be bottled in Winterspring. The Forsaken that pursues them is not a fool, and they will eventually be found."

"It was a mistake to assure them of anything," Sendil said. He placed a hand on Deephoof's shoulder. "You have no contacts in the Horde?"

"I have spent my life in the Cenarion Circle. What contacts could I have made in the Horde?"

"I think this is more personal to you than you wish to say, Deephoof," Sendil said after some consideration. "I understand why, if this is the case. You must realize that many will think as I do, and will believe that this is related to what had occurred years ago. I do not intend to discourage you, but remember that you will be seen as a Tauren first and a druid second. I will help you as far as I am able, but that may not be enough."

"I will not walk away from this," Deephoof said. "I must appeal to the council."

"There is no reason not to try," Sendil said. "I will rouse the council, but this will take time, as will their decision."

"Then it is best that we do not waste any."

OOO

The goblin's rifle was propped against the wall, just within Zork's reaching distance at his seat at the table. Azshana sipped on a scalding mug of tea, while Valzul chose to drink nothing, too deep in conversation with the goblin to go to the bar.

For his part, Zork was not as loud or obnoxious as most of the goblins Azshana had met in her life. He was eating an odd combination of beans and sweetbread, washing both down with a stein of ale that was as large as his head.

"You're lucky I found you two instead of the Alliance," Zork said between mouthfuls. "Or the Horde, for that matter. There's been more than a few accidents in Winterspring, and you two might've ended up shot."

"Good for you as well, right?" Valzul said.

"Very good, actually," said Zork. "Those were some impressive furbolgs you lured out. How'd you do it? You know, there are goblins who would pay fair gold for that sort of information."

"Maybe some other time."

Zork grinned, revealing a row of pointed teeth. "Smart. Better not to say anything up front - it's just good business." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and continued. "Course, I'll give you your cut of the sale whenever I get a buyer. Shouldn't be long - with this blizzard coming up, furbolg furs will be selling faster than the ale."

"I take it ya can make a decent living up here den?"

Zork's grin faded, and, almost reluctantly, he set down his fork and knife. "Let me give you two a little advice, as a freebie. So far I like you two, and it'd be a waste if you ended up having an accident outside the city walls. Everlook doesn't attract the type of crowd I think you're used to."

"If you're stupid enough, or desperate enough for cash, Umi usually has a few odd jobs in harvesting yeti ivory for shipment down to Ratchet," Zork continued. "If you need something hard to find, or illegal to find, you talk with Grizzlin on the other side of the town. As for Crendin Half-fist…"

Zork gestured to a table across the room, occupied by two black-bearded dwarves and a scarred human that was missing his left arm up to his elbow. Daggers were tucked into his belt, strapped onto his ankle, and he looked like the type of man to have three more hidden elsewhere in his clothes. He drank something dark from a tankard, and Azshana looked away.

"Do not talk to him, especially _you_-" Zork pointed at Vazul. "Do not look at him, do not stand too close to him. You see him walking towards you, you walk the other way. He's a businessman, but his wares aren't something you should be interested in, and those two dwarves that are constantly sitting in his shadow do most of the dealing. He hates the Horde, but he hates the Alliance just as much, so even other humans keep back."

Zork looked back and forth between Valzul and Azshana, and then stabbed a bit of sweetbread with his fork. "Anyway, figured you two outta know some things about this town."

Azshana was not sure what to make of Zork. While he had saved her and Valzul for the furbolg, goblins always had a stake to expand. She wondered if she and Valzul were becoming Zork's new business opportunity.

"Look," Zork leaned forward, and lowered his voice. "I'm not just asking this for my own curiosity, but what's the deal with you two? I've seen some bizarre people this far north, but never have I seen an Elf and a Troll traveling together."

Zork paused, as though expecting a response. When none arrived, he asked, "Are you two involved?"

Azshana said nothing - and Valzul was as inanimate as the chair he sat on.

"I think there's my answer then," said Zork, a grin growing on his face that Azshana did not like at all. "That's something else you'll need to keep discrete. Everlook does not recognize factions within its walls, but this town is not some bastion of racial equality. If that becomes known, you'll have some problems."

"I'm sure you can say dat for anywhere," Valzul said testily. "But us traveling together is not a concern."

Azshana, not liking the direction of the conversation, steered it elsewhere. "When's the blizzard going to arrive?" Inwardly, she wondered whether the goblin was planning on naming a price for keeping his mouth shut - a prospect that would complicate more things than it would simplify.

Zork, however, acknowledged her question.

"I have it on good authority that it'll be at least two more days before it's here in full force," Zork said. "Not just good authority, but the best."

"Happen to see any newcomers to Everlook besides us?" Valzul asked, and Azshana knew immediately who he was interested in.

With the amount of time they had wasted stumbling through the woods in Winterspring, it was entirely possible Edward had arrived before them - presuming he had their trail. Azshana decided that she would have to be naïve to think Edward had lost track, given his unnatural persistence.

"Hmm," Zork seemed to consider the question, as though he was not sure if he wanted to answer. He took a sip from his stein. "Any specifics?"

"A Forsaken."

Zork looked amused. "No, we haven't seen any undead in Everlook, Forsaken or otherwise, for a year or more, unless you want to count the wraiths in the old highborn ruins. The last one moved on pretty quick after arriving. Crendin has a problem with the smell, as I understand it. How long will you two be in Everlook?"

"Probably for a long while," said Valzul. "Dere's bad things coming, and I don't want to be caught outside when dey arrive."

The goblin regarded them both curiously, and Azshana slowly took a sip of tea.

**(Forgive any errors with grammar or spelling - while such mistakes are definitely present on previous chapters, they will probably be more prevalent here because I did not scan the text before submitting this. I did not want to delay the chapter further.)**


	16. Many Plans

**(I appreciate the feedback and the amount of people (judging from the statistics) that are following this. Many thanks to my patient readers.)**

Edward did not find himself hindered by the snow or the cold. Indeed, he found himself actually preferring the cold to the dripping heat that was present in the Barrens or, to a lesser degree, in Ashenvale. The chill coagulated his running blood, and for once he could travel without needing to stop and clean the crusted blood from his clothes. The strange thumping in his heart, however, stubbornly persisted, and for a while Edward entertained the idea of using his sword to saw through his ribcage and rip the offending organ out.

Even without a mount, it did not take long for him to reach Everlook. The furbolg shaman's instructions were a challenge to understand, but he managed to translate the grunts into usable directions.

_Head east_, the furbolg had said. A_nd never go south at the forks._

Edward was altogether unimpressed with the town as it began to come into view. Its whitewashed walls were not unlike those in in Gadgetzan, and he saw no buildings that rose above the wall's parapets. Two guards stood guard outside - excessive, Edward decided, given the only creatures in Winterspring that would dare attack a goblin encampment were the starved wolves and rogue yeti.

The difference in smell, however, was not something Edward recognized until he passed under Everlook's gate. The cold and the snow kept living things from leaving their holes, giving the surface a scent free of sweat and fat and waste. Entering Everlook was like passing through a wall of mortal stench, and he already began thinking of Valzul.

Edward was certain the Troll was here, hiding somewhere among the handful of buildings in the town. Goblin bruisers eyed him suspiciously as he wandered, fingering their clubs and muttering to one another. They were well equipped and numerous; telling Edward that Everlook, like most goblin towns, had little tolerance for violence within its walls.

When Edward finally came around to the inn, he attracted even more hostile stares from nervous goblins and patrons. There was a fair mix of both factions huddling around slanted wooden tables and cramped booths. Even the Horde, however, passed dark glares toward him, and a group nearest him crinkled their noses in disgust.

To him, however, the air was heavy with the smell of melting wax and smoldering coal from the furnace. It provided a suitable cover for the mortal reek that would otherwise have dominated the room.

_ How appropriate_, Edward thought.

There was something subtle, however, and Edward nearly missed it. It was the smell of sand and salt water - entirely out of place in a land of ice and snow. It only took a moment for him to find its source: Valzul with Azshana and an unfamiliar goblin, in a discrete corner of the inn.

He could not keep the grin from spreading across his face. Ignoring the approaching barkeep, Edward went to Valzul's table.

He took a free chair and, without asking, sat between the goblin and Azshana. Edward looked at each of them individually, starting with the goblin, then the Elf, and finally Valzul.

"You tried to hide from me," said Edward. His hand wandered to a crudely shaped mug in front of Azshana, brushing the handle before simply taking it. "But there is nowhere left for you to hide now."

The goblin set his fork on his half-finished plate of beans before pushing it away. He turned to Valzul. "I take it that he is your undead friend?"

"No, it's nothing like dat," Valzul said.

"This Troll is wanted for murder," Edward continued. He sniffed the mug's contents, then tentatively sipped. The tea washed down the back of his throat, tasting far too bitter, before trickling from the torn flaps of skin along his neck.

"This is a neutral town," said the goblin. "You'll be hard pressed to find someone here who will care."

Edward ignored the goblin, pushing the mug back to Azshana. "Your tea is in need of honey."

Edward held his gaze on her for a moment longer than he intended, feeling something foreign. Since his near-death experience at Valzul's hands in the Barrens, he had been experiencing emotions he had long thought dead or dormant. Maybe he had lost his carefully acquired self-control, or maybe his fall down the steep mountain slope had triggered something in his decayed brain.

Because of Valzul, he now knew what hatred was. He knew pleasure, anger, surprise, and humor. The emotions, though, came and went, like a tide, and he either felt nothing at all or was entirely controlled by an emotional surge. They were exaggerated, and - having gone for so long devoid of feeling - he was not quite capable of handling them.

Looking at Azshana, Edward now felt something new, and he did not recognize it.

"The crime was not just murder," Edward continued. He let his hand lay next to Azshana's, until she recoiled. "It was cannibalism."

"Your crime, not mine," Valzul said heatedly. "Who sent you after me, Edwed? Is dis all Zeenjen's doing?"

Edward felt a flare of anger at the mispronunciation, eclipsing whatever he was experiencing with Azshana. His heart vainly pumped itself, but the blood was still far too chilled to push through arteries. He regarded the Troll's question for a moment, not even certain of the answer himself.

"I want to kill you because I _feel_ like it," Edward said, enjoying the irony in his statement, knowing Valzul would not be able to appreciate it.

Azshana was the last one at the table he had expected to speak. "You have no time left. Valzul will eventually be cleared of murder, and it'll be you who will be killed."

Edward grinned, careful to avoid tearing the newly-formed flesh at the corners of his mouth. "I do not have to kill you as well. You can leave, or simply stay out of my way. You are far more entertaining than your Troll counterpart."

"You are losing your mind, or dying," she continued, and his amusement faded. "You can't give a real reason for why you're here, because there isn't one. Do the Forsaken let their fellows run leashless through Kalimdor?"

Edward's grin vanished at the reminder of the letters he had received from his superiors in Lordaeron. "I preferred you in Feralas. It would be a shame if killing that sentinel in Ashenvale had cost you your charm."

"You mean…" Valzul interjected. "Da sentinel dat _I_ killed."

"Very noble, taking the responsibility," said Edward. "But ultimately hollow. The only witnesses were Horde, and that is where the blame will fall as far as Darnassus is concerned."

Edward turned his attention back to Azshana. He set his elbow on the table, and leaned close enough to smell her breath. He lowered his voice so only she could hear.

"Her partner, however, was rather tasty. While the Orc was certainly filling, there was an almost salty aspect to him that left a lingering flavor on the…palate. The Elf, though, I wish I had more time to sample - sweet like berries. I suspect the difference is due to diet - who knows what sort of trash Orcs eat on a daily basis."

Some of the color left Azshana's face, though she did not move away. Edward continued. "And, in the future, I'd appreciate if you no longer drank this foul tea."

The goblin wiped his mouth before muttering an excuse and leaving - though Edward barely noticed. He reached over the table, this time with the intent of taking the mug once more, but his hand was grabbed by Valzul.

"Dis is enough of da game," Valzul said, his voice low enough to keep from attracting attention, yet still carrying a perceptible edge. "If dis be between you and me, den we can settle it real easy."

Edward found himself tempted by the challenge. "Settle where?"

"Outside, in da snow."

Their table began to attract curious looks, and, seemingly reluctant, Valzul released Edward's hand. Edward's rational half began to warn against his rash instinct, considering the possibility that the Troll might be trying to set him up for a trap.

After all, Edward would try to do the same.

"Not outside the town," said Edward, correcting the forefinger Valzul had cracked with a snap. "Behind the inn."

From his brief scouting of the town, the gated area behind the inn was secluded enough to be out of sight and earshot of the guards. Outside of the town was too large, and there were too many places for Valzul to have potentially hid a nasty surprise, or arranged an ambush.

Valzul's eyes narrowed. "Ya think I'm a fool?"

Edward took the fork from the goblin's abandoned plate, scooping a few beans for a taste. "It doesn't matter, Valzul. I prefer it this way." He found them flavorless, but swallowed them anyway. He did not take a second serving.

The past few weeks only served to reinforce his belief that mortals were, ultimately, ignorant of what was in their best interest. He was beginning to understand why his superiors were so adamant in eliminating them. Flesh was akin to a parasite or disease, warping its hosts mind, allowing emotion to run rampant.

Sylvanas called the Undeath a curse, but Edward now believed it to be more of a liberation. Though it was only relatively recent that he was able to experience such a range of feelings, it was a difference in seeing the world in full color as opposed to monochrome. He still did not understand the actions of those like Valzul and Azshana.

He knew more changes were coming to him. Since the time he was nearly killed in the Barrens, his emotions grew in potency. His body was also acting in ways that could not entirely be explained by his new, flesh-rich diet. His heart pumped when it had not pumped in years. There were foreign stirrings in him when he fought with Azshana in Ashenvale, and even now as he sat at the table.

Edward watched as Valzul set a protective hand over Azshana's, then whispering something into her ear. He felt irritation well up within him, and he did not try to control it. He thought back to the cave in the Barrens, of the Troll and Elf's irrational protection of one another.

"The problem with mortals is the hypocrisy," Edward said. Valzul's interaction with the Elf was beginning to repulse him. He felt a dull thumping in his chest. "Trolls, Elves, Orcs, or Humans - you're all the same. You deny reality - deny that nothing is forever."

He was feeling something strange, something that he had never felt before, but he knew it centered around Azshana, and the way Valzul seemed to claim her.

Edward got to his feet, his mind registering an overwhelming stench that had little to do with the tavern around him. "When the flesh finally rots, if you are graced with life through death, you will see as I do."

A moment later and Edward was outside the tavern, heading towards the town's entrance. He needed clean air after being suffocated by the smell of the tavern's patrons.

His blood was warming again, and he smeared snow and slush from the road over his arms and face, tearing at his clothes in an effort to cool himself. Whether the heat was caused by his anger, or simply the warmth from the tavern's billowing furnace, Edward did not know.

Edward fell to his knees in the snow, sensing the stares of the goblin guards on his back, but not caring. He could feel the blood in his veins slow, and it was not until his flesh became as cold as the ice he laid on did Edward stand again.

OOO

Valzul had found himself unable to sleep during his first night in Everlook. He stood alone at their room's window, quilt wrapped over his shoulders, wishing he had picked a room closer to the tavern's furnace. Flakes of snow were falling outside, as though in prelude to the coming blizzard.

While part of his insomnia was due to Edward's presence in the town, there were other factors as well. Indeed, Edward's presence did not particularly bother him. Living in Durotar, where centaurs and remnants of Proudmoore's broken fleet wandered freely, had given him the ability to sleep through nearly any danger.

The problem was much more fundamental. The room they had purchased had included only one narrow bed, and Valzul could not fall asleep next to Azshana. He had attempted using the floor, but the hardwood planks had kept him awake as effectively as Azshana's body heat.

It occurred to Valzul that he had no real plan. Assuming that he and Azshana could escape from Edward, and get the bounty on his capture lifted, what would he do next? Returning to Durotar was the simplest answer, but what he wanted was much more complicated.

Valzul heard Azshana stir in the bed behind him. When he turned, he found her wide awake, eyes glowing in the dark. It made him suddenly uncomfortable when he realized that, while she could see him clearly, he could barely see her outline.

"You haven't slept," Azshana said.

"Nerves."

Azshana reached for a stump of a candle sitting on the nightstand. When she lit the wick, Valzul could appreciate the difference immediately. There were no traces of sleep on her face, her violet hair not tousled, and Valzul realized that she had not slept either.

"How about you?"

Azshana gave him a faint smile. "It's nothing."

"Is it Edwed?" While the fear would not be entirely baseless, Valzul felt that they were safe enough. Though little else could be said for their room, the door was thick, and no one could possibly force an entry without waking them and half the tavern.

"I'm just cold."

Valzul could not decide what she meant by that, so instead he said nothing. He offered her the quilt draped over his shoulders.

Azshana wrapped herself in the quilt. "I don't see how you're not freezing. Try sleeping again, I can't rest with you standing there."

"Durotar had cold nights too," Valzul said. He thought humorlessly of the irony. He could not sleep while next to her, and she could not sleep with him standing.

"Are you going back there?"

"Nah, Moonglade be next," Valzul said, evading the meaning of the question. "We probably some time here before Deephoof can arrange everything."

"I meant after your name is cleared."

"Den we deal with Edwed."

"After that," Azshana pressed.

Valzul wished she would forget the subject. He did not want to discuss or even acknowledge what was developing inside him, and his conversation with Azshana was quickly stirring an internal war within him that had not quite settled.

"What ya looking for me to say?" Valzul asked. He saw a flash of hurt across her face and softened his tone. "I don't know what to do. I don't even know what's going on with me, or with you."

"In Ashenvale, I didn't lie and steal from Landal because you saved my life before," said Azshana. Valzul felt as though his reaction was being carefully studied. "I did it because I started caring. And you kissed me…all this isn't what I was expecting, but it's happening."

Valzul rubbed his forehead, not wanting to look at her, not wanting to grant what she so clearly wanted: an assurance, or a commitment, or some other promise that he could not guarantee.

"Dis isn't something I wanna deal with right now," Valzul said. "Da kiss wasn't a mistake, but I thought all this trouble would be over when da poison cleared. I wasn't counting on Edwed coming back from da dead, or running into sentinels."

"We're in Everlook now, though," Azshana said, taking his hand with hers. It was as cold as it would have been if she had just come in from outside. "Nobody here cares. In the tavern, nobody so much as glanced our way. The goblin even laughed-"

"Dis town is a death trap," Valzul said sharply. "It's a haven for thieves and smugglers and anyone who needs to escape."

"And _we_ need to escape."

Valzul drew his hand away and went back to the window. "Not here. Stay in dis town for too long and dere's a good chance we'll end up dead, or worse."

"Then what's your plan?"

"I already said dat I don't have one yet," said Valzul. A noise from below the window made him peer downward, into the fenced enclosure at the rear of the tavern. There were two short figures pinning a third against the fence boards.

"Or would you just prefer Durotar?"

Valzul did not reply. His attention was centered on the three figures struggling against the fence, the moon full enough to reveal two dwarves teamed against a human in scraggly furs and dirty hood.

There was not much fight in the human, however, and soon he was on the ground, curled over his knees as he tried to block their blows. Valzul was not at all tempted to become involved. The beating did not look like some simple tavern brawl, though Valzul was certain he recognized the human from somewhere.

It was not easy to watch. The pair of dwarves could have been twins; both with thick black beards and knotted hair with a few woven braids. They took turns kicking the crumpled figure on the ground, not being particular with where their boots landed. They did not laugh, or show any sort of reaction to the human's grunts and pleas. Their expressions were impersonal and detached, as if they were simply carrying out another part of a rather boring daily routine.

Valzul felt Azshana move beside him, her arm brushing against his as she leaned towards the window to follow his stare. Her expression became troubled, as though she had been forced to acknowledge something unpleasant. Valzul hated seeing her wear that expression, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, regretting that he had attracted her attention to the window.

A fourth figure came into view, a wolf pelt swathed over his shoulders and down his back. When Valzul saw the figure's left arm was partly missing, he realized he was looking at Crendin Half-fist - the human that Zork had warned him of.

In Half-fists' remaining hand was a dagger, which he rolled absently in his palm for a while before finally saying "Enough."

The dwarves responded immediately, backing a few steps away from the convulsing human. Despite the blood that now ran freely down the man's face, Valzul was still able to remember him.

When Half-fist spoke again, it was in a guttural voice of someone that was unused to speaking. "You took my damn money, and you lost my damn money."

The human said something that Valzul did not quite catch. The wind, which had not fully died, made listening difficult.

"And you used the last of it to fly up here - for what reason? To ask for more," Half-fist paused, as though considering something. "Hit him."

A dwarf obliged instantly, cracking his boot into the man's ribcage. Valzul grimaced as the figure rolled, clutching his side.

"I remember that man from somewhere," Azshana whispered.

Valzul nodded. "If you do too, den it must be from somewhere recent. But where have we run into humans before-"

Valzul hesitated, knowing only one time where he and Azshana had encountered humans. He watched the man now with considerably less concern, though he still hoped his instinct was wrong.

Half-fist moved closer to the other man, and Valzul had to strain his ears to understand.

"There's a lot of ways I can take back that loan," Half-fist said. "Maybe grind up your teeth and trade it to an alchemist, or sell your head to some Alliance bounty hunter."

The man muttered, and Valzul almost missed him speaking at all.

Half-fist must have missed it too. "What?" he asked in a growl.

"I got some plans lined up," the man said in a wheeze. "I just need time and you'll have the gold."

"You need time?" Half-fist asked, though it was scarcely a question. "You need time to run south, more like than not. Hit him."

The blow struck straight into his stomach.

"You ask me for gold," said Half-fist. "You ask me for time. Months ago, I gave you both, and you have nothing to show for it. Get him to his feet."

The two dwarves hoisted the man up, throwing his arms over their shoulders. Not too gently, they straightened his legs, forcing him to stand, and after a moment he was able to stabilize himself off the shoulders of the dwarves.

The full damage the man had taken was now apparent. His clothes were torn, the skin either split and bleeding underneath, or bruised and pulpy. He looked as fragile as glass, ready to fall over and shatter with the first gust of wind.

"I want his neck," Half-fist said.

A dwarf drew a jagged dagger.

Valzul did not watch to any longer. The scene had only served to reinforce his perception of the town: a gathering of cutthroats that the goblins were barely able to keep in line. Remembering the lit candle on the nightstand, he snuffed the flame before it would attract any attention from those below.

"Valzul-" Azshana caught his arm. "I know where I've seen that human before."

Valzul swallowed. He had hoped that he was mistaken. "In a minute, it's not gonna matter."

Half-fist spoke again, and Valzul did not have to strain to hear him. "I want your neck, but you can keep it - for now. The copper your head would get me isn't shit compared to what you owe me."

"By the end of this month, I want part of my gold back," Half-fist continued. "I don't care how. If not, our next meeting will be outside of town. Understand, Gressle?"

The name matched the face in Valzul's mind. Memory of Feralas, and the leader of the smuggle caravan, flared into existence. A deep part of him wanted Half-fist to end the meeting with Gressle's slit throat.

"Yes," Gressle managed to say.

Half-fist watched the other man for a moment, seeming to size him up. Finally, he nodded, and the dwarves let Gressle drop to the ground. Daggers were sheathed, and the two dwarves left him where he had fallen.

"And welcome to Everlook," Half-fist said, and for a fleeting moment Valzul was certain that Half-fist had turned to him. A sudden fear that Half-fist had known that he was being watched, or noticed the window, crept into Valzul.

The moment passed, however, and soon Gressle was left alone in the snow.

Valzul moved away from the window, his jaw clenched, unsure of what to do. From what he could remember from Feralas, Gressle alone was not dangerous. However, Gressle was now desperate for gold, and had connections with the local ring of smugglers. Edward was enough of a problem to deal with, and Valzul did not want to gain the attention of Half-fist or his two dwarf thugs.

Valzul could see Azshana having thoughts identical to his, and he began to consider going outside with his axe and finishing Gressle before he could gain his bearings.

Azshana spoke before he made a decision. "Gressle doesn't have any reason to come after us. He's not going to try and capture us in the middle of Everlook-"

"I'm not worried about him taking me and you like he did before," said Valzul. "But dere's a bounty on my head, and if he's looking to make some gold, dat's an easy way to get it. If word gets around of dat bounty…"

"It wouldn't just be Gressle we'd be dealing with," Azshana finished for him.

_Yea, be more like Gressle, Crendin, da dwarves, and maybe some goblins if da bounty is high enough._

"In another day Zork will have da gold from da furs," Valzul said. "With gold we can fly outta here before da blizzard arrives, and I think it's best if we get out as soon as we can."

"Assuming that Deephoof comes through," said Azshana. "But how can you be sure he will? All you've told me about him is that you met him in Camp Mojache."

Valzul began scratching the back of his head, becoming as uncomfortable as he was when she first asked about the old Tauren.

"Landal seemed to know him," continued Azshana. "From the Circle, I assume. And he was mentioned again in the diary I read."

"What diary?"

Azshana briefly explained her exchange with Landal, and how she managed to acquire an antidote from the Night Elf in Ashenvale - much of which Valzul had not been conscious during.

"Using the diary, I was able to persuade Landal to give me the antidote," said Azshana. "But it became clear that Landal and Deephoof loved the same woman."

Despite himself, Valzul was surprised. Deep down, he suspected there was more to Deephoof's story than the Tauren was willing to share.

"Dere's a bit more dan what I told you about Camp Mojache," admitted Valzul. "I was going to let you die. Deephoof saved your life. He talked me into doing what I did, and for dat I trust him."

Azshana looked at him for a long while, saying nothing, her glowing eyes steady in the unlit room. Valzul could still smell the smoke from the candle wick he smothered, and he was almost ready to light it once more so he could see her expression.

"Then I trust him too," Azshana said at last, kissing him a little too quickly before going back to the bed. "But we should sleep."

No longer having the awkward feeling that had maintained his insomnia, Valzul laid next to her on the bed that he once thought too narrow. Earlier he would not have been comfortable, but now he did not feel out of place.

"Still cold," he heard Azshana murmur as she moved closer to him. Tentatively, Valzul let his arm fall over her waist, his fingers brushing skin to find that she was indeed cold. He was close enough to smell her hair, so he shifted his head.

Valzul could not remember the last time that he felt truly relaxed. Edward seemed far away, and problems that would have bothered him in Durotar did not bother him now.

As much as Valzul wanted to, he knew that they could not stay in Everlook for too long. An Elf and a Troll made an odd pair, and he could not think of any place where they would not attract unwanted attention.

But then, even that problem still felt very far away.

OOO

Zeenjen knew that he was following the right lead when he found the corpse of an Undead wolf by the entrance of the Timbermaw lair. The innkeeper at Splintertree had not been lying - Edward had definitely gone north through Felwood, as unlikely as it seemed. Valzul and the Elf could not be far ahead.

His raptor, however, became uneasy as they approached the corpse. Through all of Felwood it had retained the latent aggression that Zeenjen had purposefully instilled in his mount, yet now it fought against every step forward, shoulders trembling.

Zeenjen struck the raptor's flank with his riding crop, being none too delicate. The lash broke the scales, creating a trickle of blood.

"I don' have time for dis, Whisperwind," Zeenjen threatened. He never let his raptor keep one name for too long, and for this journey he wanted to give it a Night Elvish name. Whisperwind was one of the few Elf names he knew, and he cracked his riding crop again - this time to release his own pent-up anger. He did not like calling his mount Whisperwind, but it was necessary in order to appease the spirits as he ventured through godless land.

Approaching the corpse, Zeenjen could not be sure how long the wolf had been dead. With creatures corrupted by Unlife, it was always difficult to tell for certain. Normal rules of decomposition never seemed to apply.

Whisperwind started towards Timbermaw Hold with a kick, Zeenjen giving little slack with the reins. He did not expect to have much trouble traveling through the Hold - after all, as an officer of the Horde, he generally had good relations with the Timbermaw. This was not the first time he had been to Felwood.

Zeenjen knew that he did not have much time. Word of Valzul's bounty would spread like fire through every backwater tavern in Kalimdor, especially when cannibalism was on the list of crimes. Given that Zeenjen doubted Moonglade would grant Valzul and the Elf entrance, his brother could only be in Everlook. Though it had been years since Zeenjen was last in a goblin town, it was not likely that they had changed much. If he did not hurry, Valzul could be dead before he even arrived.

Zeenjen jerked on Whisperwind's reins, bringing the raptor to an instant halt. He turned, peering down the road behind him, having a feeling in his gut that he was being tracked.

Zeenjen was certain that Gallek was trailing him. He had seen the Inspector in Splintertree, and spied him before in the Barrens. While one such encounter could be written off as coincidence, two encounters made Zeenjen suspicious. Gallek had gall to think he could follow a Troll for so long without being noticed. If more time was available, Zeenjen would have turned around and confronted the Orc before going any farther.

Instead, he urged Whisperwind back towards the tunnel.

"Dere'll be a time and place for Gallek, if dat's what he wants," Zeenjen spoke aloud - Whisperwind tilted her head, as though listening for a command. "Edward and dis Elf need to be dealt with first."

Edward had been Zeenjen's own mistake. He had not expected the Forsaken to become as volatile as he did. The Elf, however, was an unknown factor. He did not understand what had come over his brother, but he was certain some sort of forest magic or hex was involved.

Zeenjen's experience was limited to the physical world rather than the spiritual. He knew the old Darkspear traditions, and the old Darkspear remedies. If the Elf had provoked a spirit into corrupting Valzul, there was only one sure way to stem the magic. Killing the Elf was only the first part, and would serve only to weaken the hex rather than eliminate it. The second part required that the Elf's spirit be broken before it could fully enter the spirit world. Only then could Valzul be truly freed.

Though even father would warn against it, Zeenjen could see little other way. Some Darkspear customs should not have been abandoned, whether Thrall and the Orcs understood them or not. Zeenjen knew the very act, even on an enemy, would jeopardize his position in the Orc hierarchy, but Valzul's defection would destroy his career just as surely.

After all, the Darkspear had devoured their enemies for thousands of years before the Orcs even arrived on Azeroth to keep their spirits from seeking vengeance in the afterlife. Resurrecting an old ritual, illegal or not, to save his brother and maintain their family's standing in the tribe was a small price to pay.

**(If there are certain sections or point of views that aren't as interesting as others, please note it so that I may improve/cutback on these sections in future chapters.**

**On that note, due to school demands and the holiday season, I expect the next chapter to be posted in approximately a month - so there will be a bit of a gap. But it shall get posted.)**


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